The Damned
by Phantom of the Tech Booth
Summary: In the summer before his third year, Harry is kidnapped and sent to a Russian concentration camp, modeled after the death camps of the Holocaust. He befriends a familiar black dog and struggles to survive this harrowing experience while the Wizarding World searches for their savior. Complete. Post-CoS. AU-PoA.
1. Chapter 1: Zombie

**Chapter 1: Zombie**

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**STORY DETAILS**

**Summary:** In the summer before his third year, Harry is kidnapped and sent to a Russian concentration camp, modeled after those in WWII. He befriends a familiar black dog and struggles to survive this harrowing experience. Post-COS.

**Features:** Harry starts off as twelve but soon turns thirteen during his time at the camp. No romance. Rated for language, violence, and mature content. Post-CoS

**Seriously Serious Warning:** This story is not meant to offend anyone of any religion or nationality. I'm an atheist in a rural area, and the basic plot explores the concept of atheistic alienation, as distrust of atheists is common worldwide, but it is not meant to criticize or trivialize any religion. **To each his own.**

**Big Fat Disclaimer:** As I said, I grew up reading and watching Holocaust stories. You will find elements of those copyrighted stories in this fic. For example, I borrow heavily from **Night**, by Elie Wiesel, as well as some from **Schindler's List**, **The Devil's Arithmetic**, and others. I can't credit them all—they have mixed together in my head over the years—but if you note any similarities, please know that I was heavily inspired by the accounts of survivors and authors alike. Later, there will be a scene directly from** Inglourious Basterds** (Tarantino's), and there are a few references to **Pulp Fiction**, if you can find them (despite this story occurring a year before its release). Also, I set this story in Russia because I like the sound of the Russian language, and I wanted to get away from the Nazi German history that is already prevalent in the story. I do not have anything against Russia and there is no such thing as the Nebo.

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**The Damned**

**Chapter One: Zombie**

By: Phantom of the Tech Booth

_Another head hangs lowly,  
Child is slowly taken.  
And the violence caused such silence,  
Who are we mistaken? _

[Zombie – The Cranberries]

Twelve-year-old Harry Potter sat calmly in the back seat of his Uncle Vernon's luxury car; at least, Uncle Vernon liked to think it was a _luxury_ car. His fingers held Hedwig's cage securely on his lap as they pulled out of King's Cross station, heading to Surrey after his second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Harry stole a glance at his whale of a cousin next to him before leaning his head on the window, watching the city pass by. They were not on the road for long before Uncle Vernon pulled into a massive parking lot. Harry didn't recognize where they were, but after a moment chose to ignore his quietly chattering aunt and uncle. With any luck, he would be left in the car while they ran whatever errand this was.

He was jolted from his thoughts when Uncle Vernon heaved himself out of the driver's seat. The oaf of a man darted around the car and yanked Harry's door open, nearly spilling the unsuspecting boy onto the pavement. Uncle Vernon none too gently opened Hedwig's cage and, ignoring Harry's outraged cry, threw the bird into the air. Harry watched her form take flight, hoping she wasn't hurt, before turning his indignant eyes to his uncle.

"What was that for?!" he demanded hotly.

"Shut up," Uncle Vernon snapped in a guttural voice, taking Harry's arm in a vice grip and leading him to the boot of the car. "Get your things."

"Why?" Harry dared. Uncle Vernon raised a hand threateningly and Harry dropped his gaze, choosing instead to silently wrestle his trunk out of the car. As the boot slammed shut, he tried to glance questioningly at his aunt, but she was stoically looking out the front of the car, while Dudley watched them with wide eyes from the back.

"Come on, then."

Harry dragged his trunk after his uncle, grimacing at the damage the pavement was doing to his luggage. They entered the huge building and the chill of industrial sized air conditioning reached his skin before Harry recognized where his relatives had brought him.

"Uncle Vernon—" he broached.

"Shut it."

"Why are we at the airport?" he persisted.

Uncle Vernon stopped in his tracks and spun on his heel to face Harry with an unreadable expression. "_You're_ taking a trip."

"A trip where?" Harry swallowed, confused and more than a little apprehensive.

"A trip out of our hair," Uncle Vernon finished in a sing-song voice. "You're going to Italy." Harry's heart dropped. _Italy? Why Italy? What in Merlin's beard did Italy have for him?_ "They have a _wonderful_ program there for brats like you," Uncle Vernon continued, his lips vibrating against his mustache in that ever-so-slightly-terrifying way he had when he was excited. "They take in _apprentices_, Catholic boys, train them to serve in their churches." Harry looked at his uncle with wide eyes. _He's lost it._ "Try explaining your freakishness to them, I'm sure they'll be happy to send you back for your _schooling,_" Uncle Vernon finished with a smirk before turning back to lead them further into the terminal.

"Sir, I—"

"Your aunt and I have paid for your flight in full, don't you worry about a thing, my dear boy," Uncle Vernon announced in a chipper voice. Harry struggled to keep up, his head swimming.

Within an hour, despite his protests and pleas, Harry found himself sitting near the back of the plane, waiting to take off. His papers were clutched in his sweaty hands as he tried to foresee what would come next. He was to arrive in Italy and take a cab to the address Uncle Vernon had given him, a Catholic orphanage for older boys where he would need to somehow find a way to contact Dumbledore...

Harry dropped his head into his hands, trembling with emotion. His family, his stupid wretched family, had deserted him—paid to ship him off to another country, where he didn't know the language and would doubtless spend ages trying to get back home. Except he had no home to go to. Dumbledore, for the second year in a row, had rejected his request to stay at Hogwarts over the summer; maybe if he saw how badly the Dursley's wanted to be rid of him, he would reconsider and let Harry stay on as an assistant to Hagrid. Even signing on as Filch's apprentice was preferable to being sent to an Italian orphanage.

Something tickled his forehead and he looked up to find a little girl, seated one row in front of his across the aisle, leaning out of her seat with a ragged flower in her outstretched hand. Harry brushed the flower carefully away from his face and gave the girl—no older than five or six—a gentle smile. The grin she sent back his way made him forget about the Dursley's for a second, until the pilot's voice washed over them, asking them to buckle up and yada-yada-yada...

When the plane was in the air and its passengers comfortably settled for their flight, Harry tipped his head back and tried to sleep. It was difficult with the newlywed couple next to him poking and tickling and teasing each other, but his travel-addled mind must have dozed off for a while because when he woke, they were somewhere over the sea. More importantly, there was commotion making its way up the aisle toward the cockpit. Harry leaned over his armrest into the aisle to get a better look, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He saw three passengers and a flight attendant by the door to the cockpit; two of the men were yelling over each other at the other passengers, some of whom seemed poised to help the flight attendant, who was currently being berated by the third man. The third man brandished something at her, grabbing her by the back of the neck and forcing her toward the cockpit door.

Harry sat a little straighter in his seat, watching the woman plead with the man before he brought his fist—which was clutching _something—_close to her face and she seemed to lose her urge to argue. Harry couldn't see much from his seat in the back, what with a crowd of curious passengers straining their necks to see as well, but he saw the cockpit open and the third man barged inside. The woman watched the scene in cockpit for a moment and jumped, her hands flying to her face in horror. The third man emerged from the cockpit again, a gleam of red on his hands, and nodded to the other two.

"Everybody listen to me!" one of the other two men declared in a thick accent above the uproar, grabbing the horrified flight attendant and putting something to her neck. From the immediate trickle of blood, Harry assumed that 'something' was sharp. A hush fell over the cabin. "If you are calm," the man continued—Harry tried to place his accent—"you will live. If you are not, you will die." The cabin was silent; nobody seemed to breathe.

One of his partners spoke up next, his accent similar but much thicker. "We are taking a detour. You are to remain seated, with your seat-belts on..." he paused here, as if waiting. "With your seat-belts _ON_..." There was a mass flurry of buckling seat-belts as the passengers caught onto his demand. "We will tell you when we have arrived." The third man ducked back into the cockpit while the other two stood at the front of the plane, flanking the entrance to the control nook and keeping a savage hold on the bleeding flight attendant.

The flight continued in a sickening silence. Harry felt nauseous as he stared heavily into the seat in front of him, wishing he had been able to keep his wand on him when they went through security—instead, it was locked safely away in his trunk in the baggage compartment. During what was probably normal turbulence, the cabin came alive with gasps and cries of terror. The men ordered the remaining flight attendants to stand guard at the back of the plane, preventing anyone from using the loo or hiding in the tiny kitchen. It was a tense flight that ended none too soon.

The plane was brought in for a smooth landing on a long strip of asphalt far from any buildings or landmarks. What was supposed to be a four hour flight was instead a six hour flight—but even by that estimate, Harry had no idea where they could be. The young woman next to him had not let go of her new husband's hand and her voice trembled as they spoke in hushed tones to each other, but Harry heard them ventures guesses as to the identity of their hijackers. He agreed they sounded distinctly Russian, possibly Ukrainian.

Their hijackers unfurled the inflatable emergency slide and began ushering passengers off the plane. Harry was one of the last to jump down the slide. When he climbed clumsily off the landing zone, he was quickly directed to stand in line with the other passengers. A dozen men—men with guns, large guns—stood around them while the hijackers finished clearing out the cabin. Harry met the eyes of one gunman and quickly averted his gaze to look somewhere to the left. A whimper by his side caught his attention and he looked down the line to find the little girl with the flower clutching her mother. He quickly switched positions in line so he could be next to the child. He held her other hand, her ragged flower clasped between them, and put a finger to his lips with a reassuring smile. The shaking mother barely spared him a glance.

The hijackers finally exited the plane and reported to the only man without a gun—or at least, without a gun they could see. Harry couldn't understand a word of what was said, but the man, dressed in a suit, nodded and pushed past the three men to observe the mostly silent passengers. The only sound came from the whimpering child whose hand Harry held.

"What is this about?" A burly Scottish man demanded suddenly from the line of passengers. Harry's head whipped to his right to watch the encounter, desperately curious himself. The seemingly unarmed man approached his challenger as he responded.

"You will learn soon enough." The suited man came to the end of the line and turned. "We are part of an organization in Russia designed to create a more hospitable future for our children." From far down the line, Harry saw the man's eyes land on him and the girl. He stared back, hoping his face did not reveal his rattled nerves. "We call ourselves the _nyeh-buh—_" Harry's brow furrowed, trying not to miss anything. "...it means _sky_ in our native Russia, for we wish to unite the people of our world under one sky, full of hope for the future, though many differences may separate us." Harry had no idea where this was going. A sky full of hope, surrounded by guns? "We are not hateful," the man continued, walking slowly down the line. "We are not evil. We do not want to steal your god from you," he chuckled. "We believe all gods are equal. Every spirituality is sacred and will help us build a stronger future. Gods teach morals," the man's voice hardened, "and morals are the backbone of every society. We must fear our gods, worship them readily, bend ourselves to their will. Only in this can we be strong, can we stand the test of time."

Harry dared to glance around, his face reflecting his incredulity as he tried to gather _something_ from the armed men around them. He noticed now they all wore badges pinned to their uniforms, each with an identical symbol engraved into the silver: a square with one line coming out of the top, reaching right, and another line coming out of the bottom, reaching left. A cult symbol, that was all he could gather. At his side, the blonde girl pulled on her mother's hand and tried to ask her something, only to be shushed. The man paused to look once more at the girl, then to her mother, then to Harry, before continuing.

"Tell me, which of you would call yourselves...spiritual?" Harry stood still as well over half the people in the line raised their hands. Harry doubted all of these people would consider themselves spiritual in any other circumstance, but even he found himself wishing he had a prayer in mind.

_'If anyone asks, you're Catholic,' _Uncle Vernon had said before seeing him off. Harry thought about raising his hand, but the man nodded and those who were 'spiritual' were already lowering their hands.

The man made his way to Harry, where he paused briefly to observe him and the girl before continuing to the other end of the line.

"And yet, I do not see evidence of this. All gods want to be worshiped, but you, their _followers_," he scoffed, "deny them." A rustle of unease passed through the line. The man stopped at the last person in line, an old woman who looked too frail to jump down the inflatable emergency slide but had done so anyway. He brushed her collar away and lifted a thin gold chain, observing the crucifix hanging from it. The old man next to her got the hint and eagerly showed the man an inscription on his wedding band, to which the well-dressed man nodded approvingly.

There was a flurry of movement as some passengers—markedly fewer than the number that had proclaimed themselves spiritual in the first place—moved to produce proof of their faith. Crucifixes, yamakas, tattoos, a clutch with a star of David embedded on it, even a rumpled pamphlet from a recent worship service...Harry stood by as nine or ten of the forty-plus passengers offered the man some evidence of their spirituality. When he came back to their side of the line, he looked down at Harry expectantly, but he had nothing to show. The Dursley's were not a particularly religious family, though they did care enough to leave him locked in his cupboard every December 25th while they went to the annual Christmas services at whatever church they pretended to attend.

He broke into a sweat, suddenly aware that his inability to show this man some sort of trinket would undoubtedly mean trouble. His thoughts were interrupted by the girl wrenching her hand from his and shoving the flower she held toward the man, who crouched to her height to look at it. Harry saw the girl's face darken in anger and annoyance before it happened, but he was too late to stop it. As if in slow motion, he watched the child wrench back her arm and attempt to throw the flower in the balding man's face, only to smack him square on the nose, dropping the flower at his feet.

Harry snatched her guilty hand away and threw his other arm in front of her, shielding her as best he could while remaining in line. The girl's mother grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back only to be stopped by one of the armed guards standing at their backs. Harry watched the man with wide eyes as he returned to his full height—a staggering six feet with a few inches to spare—, his jowls quivering as he stared down at the crumpled flower on the ground.

"This little one does not know fear," he announced, not looking away from the fallen flower. "She does not have a god."

"No, we do, we do!" the mother pleaded quickly, raising a hand to placate the man. "She's cranky, I'm so sorry, she's just grumpy from the flight—AH!" The mother jerked forward as the guard from behind them punched her in the head. She lost her grip on her daughter but managed to hold herself upright. The little girl screamed in protest but Harry pulled her close, slapping a hand over her mouth while she struggled against him.

"Quiet your sister, little one." It took Harry a moment to realize the man was talking to him, but he didn't bother to correct him. "Children are the future," the man continued, looking down the line of pale spectators. "It saddens me to see them spoiled like this." He watched as the mother composed herself and joined Harry in trying to calm the screaming girl. "That is what children who are without fear become—_spoiled_." His Russian voice was raised against the cries of the child while he beckoned one of his men to join him. "What is spoiled is no good, it is rotten and cannot be saved."

Harry knelt on the ground to look the girl desperately in the eyes, the man's words chilling him to the bone. This would not end well, he had to stop this. He took the girl's hands in his while her mother kept a clammy hand firmly over her mouth. "Shhhh, shhh-shhh," he pleaded, planting a kiss on her tiny fingers. "Hush now, it'll be okay, just _hush! Please!_"

The man had stopped speaking. He was staring at them with an odd expression before he seemed to reach a decision. He nodded to the guard next to him, who stepped forward and snatched the crying girl from the arms around her, tossed her like a rag doll before the line, took aim, and shot her in the side of the head.

With a resounding _bang_, the girl's cries stopped and the mother's cries took her place. Everyone in the line reacted differently—some jumped, some screamed, some cried out in terror. Harry's ears were ringing and the sounds around him fell away; he could only see the girl's crumpled form, beautiful golden hair sullied by blood, cherub cheeks blown away before she even had time to look up. There was a bloody mess where the bullet entered on one side of her head, but that was nothing compared to the inverted crater on the other side, where her skull had been blasted apart and wet brain matter leaked out onto the ground.

Harry blinked as his senses returned. He didn't know what was happening around him, he couldn't focus on the suited man in front of him, but he knew that the burly Scott who had spoken earlier was now opening weeping, his choked sobs outmatched only by the mother's. The suited man ignored the woman's wails as he addressed the line once more.

"If you have proven to me that you are not so ashamed of your gods that you would deny them, you may step back."

Slowly, uncertainly, those who had had trinkets or symbols on hand to prove their faith stepped back from the line, leaving Harry and the rest feeling exposed and vulnerable. A guard beckoned them to follow him, leading them toward a bus in the distance. Harry watched them go, wondering if he could have slipped away with them. His eyes returned to the remains of the little girl, blood pooling around her angelic body while her mother carried on in anguish beside him. The man continued speaking, but Harry couldn't listen. His head felt fuzzy, his limbs were tingling, and his knees were on the edge of buckling. The ground tilted dangerously as he tried to breathe.

They were led in the opposite direction of the others, flanked by guards. Harry tore his gaze away from the girl's body and focused his attention forward as they marched across the pavement and into the grass. There was a large field surrounding the landing strip; they were headed for the trees beyond the field.

The troop marched for a while, but Harry couldn't tell how long it was: an hour, ten minutes, a day—his mind was not thinking about time, it could hardly think to fill his lungs. The air in the wooded area felt dense, it was like trying to breathe through gelatin. The man in the trim black suit seemed to be in a relatively jovial mood, but Harry avoided his cold eyes. His feet, numb beneath him, tripped over roots and uneven terrain until they found a gravel surface. He looked up as the line came to a halt here. An old rusted train, composed of mismatched boxcars, sat on an antique track at what must have been the other side of the wooded area.

A guard opened the first boxcar with a metallic _clang_. Harry was surprised the rusted door didn't fall off its sliders or disintegrate into tiny metal shavings, as it must have been at least sixty, seventy years old.

"Get in," the suited man ordered shortly, though his voice was light, almost gentle. Harry, toward the back of the line, watched as the large Scottish man (still sniffling) hesitated. A guard standing next to him pushed him roughly forward, almost sending his face careening into the side of the boxcar. The line of people began moving forward, one-by-one climbing clumsily into the dark compartment. Some needed help, and when it came to Harry's turn, the guard who had opened the door stepped forward and swiftly grabbed him around the waist, hoisting him easily into the boxcar before he could even blink. One of the other passengers helped him get to his feet—he didn't know who—and he found himself meandering toward the back. While the back wall of the boxcar offered respite from the suited man's gaze, it felt as if he were walking into his grave.

The suited man barked some orders and the door _clanged_ shut, throwing them in darkness. Light shone through the cracks and holes in the car, allowing them to see each other. Harry couldn't help but feel as if they were animals being herded to slaughter.

It was several minutes of absolutely nothing, while they waited. Waited. Waited for what? Nobody seemed to know for sure, but everyone was thoroughly terrified. The mother could be heard sobbing somewhere in the car, though Harry couldn't spot her among the twenty or so people. Some of his comrades were crying—quietly or openly—while some were pale and shaking, and still others looked indignant with a touch of worry. If his lightheadedness was any indication, Harry was sure he was among the pale and shaking, though he couldn't remember when his face had become wet.

With a lurch, the train began moving.

* * *

They traveled for five or six days. They stopped once a day in remote areas to let everyone out to relieve themselves. Once a day was not enough at first and the boxcar quickly stank with the smell of urine, but after a few days of dehydration, it was almost superfluous, though not unwelcome. During their daily break, a single bottle of water was passed around, shared among the thirty-something passengers. A guard tossed in a bagged loaf of bread once and they tried to ration it out as reasonably as possible, not knowing when their journey would end.

Three times, the train stopped for several hours and Harry heard more people filling more boxcars. Sometimes they were screaming, other times they were quiet. Whether or not they spoke English, he couldn't tell—when passengers from his car tried to speak with the car next in line, hushed whispers could be heard arguing in another language, but no response came. Only a handful of Italians were among them, and a few people with moderate knowledge of French, but nobody seemed able to identify the language being spoken by the neighboring boxcar.

"Sounds like Polish..." the young man from the newlywed couple ventured.

During their bathroom breaks, Harry saw an increasing number of passengers, but nobody dared speak in front of their armed escorts. By the last day, Harry estimated there were at least a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred people. He didn't count those they had lost: the elderly couple, among a few others from other boxcars, had quietly passed during their hot, unforgiving journey. Their bodies were unceremoniously dumped a little ways off from the tracks during the daily breaks, left for the animals.

By the last day the most popular theory seemed to be that they were being taken in by an underground Russian group that had supposedly been around since the 1970s. The group's mission changed over the years, but an older university student was adamant that the rumors were true—_had_ to be true.

"They raid small towns, kidnap dozens of people every week, hold them until they can transfer them to a facility," he had explained, his face flushed with the attention.

"A facility?" one woman croaked.

"What do you mean by _facility_?" the burly man asked heatedly, his temper returning in the stuffy compartment. Harry wished he would cool his outrageous temper. He counted himself lucky to be in a compartment of thirty people instead of one of the other boxcars that held fifty or more.

The university student shrugged then. He was out of answers. He only said that those who went into these facilities, typically didn't come out.

Harry kept to himself in the boxcar and made no friends. Everyone was older than him by almost a decade and nobody wanted to bother themselves with a kid, and after the display on the landing strip, Harry could understand why. He found breathing to be a strain in the hot compartment and he was weak and shaky—the starvation he endured growing up with the Dursley's had not prepared him for these conditions.

He couldn't shake the image of the little girl blown away. Every time he closed his eyes, she was there, with her flower, with her brains spraying through the air and splattering across the pavement.

The train came to a gradual stop early that morning, and it was somehow clear to everyone that this was not their daily break. This was it. Whatever was waiting for them, was out there. They stood near the back, listening to the guards shout at each other. They heard the other boxcar doors opening first, one by one releasing their batch of men, women, and children; couples, students, grandparents, and more. Finally, their door opened and they were ushered into the sunlight. Harry nearly face-planted when he jumped down, his legs weak from the ride, but he managed to stay upright.

The guards were ordering people around in Russian and Harry and his fellow passengers followed what everyone else was doing. They lined up single file in front of a huge outdoor complex, muttering to each other in different languages. The front wall, a tall concrete monstrosity, seemed to stretch on forever to either side, imposing guard towers at what must have been the far corners. A dense forest surrounded them on the other three sides, trapping them in an oppressive isolation. They waited for an unknown signal from far off before shuffling down the long gravel path, into the complex.

"Here we go..." the university student choked out.

_This is just a detour_, Harry assured himself. _Dumbledore will find me soon, this will all be sorted out._

Entering the complex, Harry saw a rigid division of wooden buildings. Several of the first few buildings they passed were quite large, some three stories tall. Men in uniform congregated around these buildings, some carrying guns, some drinking Coca Cola, some even kicking a football around; but all stopped to watch and sneer as they marched by. The queasy feeling in his empty stomach returned as they were led deeper into the complex.

They tramped over the dirt ground, not a friendly face in sight. A crowd of voices could be heard somewhere off to the right, where an unending series of long identical buildings began, and activity could be heard somewhere to the left, though they couldn't see much in that direction beyond a huge building with a tin roof. They stopped in a square clearing and Harry joined the others in attempting to see what was happening at the front of the line. More orders were barked in Russian and after a moment the line began slowly moving forward and dividing. He couldn't determine how they were being divided—it wasn't by gender, it didn't seem to be by age—but there was definitely a theme. His muddled mind just couldn't pick out the pattern...

"Try to go to the left," a woman Harry knew from the ride whispered to someone in front of her. "There's women there, they'll treat us more gently."

"There's women to the right, too," her friend argued.

"Not as many." There was a pause in the conversation as a guard walked by.

"Those are mothers to the left, families," came the thoughtful response.

"Exactly, they won't hurt children."

"They _shot_ that little girl!" She was too loud this time. A guard stalked over and grabbed the woman's face, spitting out a Russian order, probably telling her to shut the hell up.

As the line shortened and Harry approached the front, he saw a man in a highly decorated but unfamiliar military-style uniform and sporting the same silver badge as the others. His face was wide and bony, his cheekbones sticking out in sharp angles, his gray hair mostly hidden under a forest-green hat with a black brim. His arm was bent at the elbow and his hand was close to his body, but the thumb was up and his wrist was tilted to the right. The man at the front of the line went right. His wrist remained tilted to the right, and the next woman went to the right as well.

The next person, a boy a year or two younger than Harry, was sent to the left and the woman who had gone before him turned back when she realized he wasn't following her. A guard caught her around the middle as she tried to go to her son's side, but the militant man called out something and jerked his head to the left, apparently acquiescing her request to be with her son. The woman rushed to her child and grasped his hand, kissing it firmly and turning to meet the eyes of the man who had gone before her in line. Possibly her husband, the boy's father, given his distress. The militant man ignored his attempts to fight his way to the left. The man was quickly silenced by a guard.

The women who were whispering earlier were split up, each giving the other a pitying look, and then it was Harry's turn. His heart was beating loudly and blood rushed to his ears. He saw the man's eyes flicker but it was the thumb Harry was focused on. The wrist hesitated for a brief moment, then turned left. Before Harry could take more than a step in that direction, however, the man changed his mind and pointed his thumb to the right. Harry glimpsed at his face but saw no emotion, only boredom, irritation. He hurried to the right, trying to blend in with the others, who were mostly men and middle-aged women. Harry migrated toward a couple teenagers, but didn't say anything. The rest of the passengers from the plane were sorted and silence did not reign long before a guard began leading the left group away, around the back of the long tin-roofed building and out of sight. The militant man who had sorted them began speaking Russian and gestured toward the huge building. Harry followed his group as they made their way through the double barn doors inside.

He never saw anyone from the left group again.

* * *

He was naked. His head was shaved and he was naked. He kept his eyes well above eye-level; being the youngest and shortest in this group, he had already gotten more of an eyeful than he had ever wanted. He shivered and protected his groin as best he could from the jet of cold water being sprayed at them out of a hose. The building they were in was a huge processing unit: one area was designated for stripping, another for shaving, and now they were being hosed down like stinking animals.

They were herded even further into the building where long tables and rickety chairs awaited them. An odd group of people sat in half of these chairs—some were dressed in ragged clothes with short hair and starved looks. Others wore nicer clothes, but were not much healthier. All had closed-off expressions and met the eyes of no one.

There was a flurry of movement as everyone moved to sit across from one of these people. Harry was one of the first to sit and he was unprepared for what happened next. The skinny woman in front of him grabbed his left hand and slammed his arm on the table. She twisted around the table in order to bring the tool in her hand to his forearm. After quickly referring to a chart, she turned the tool on—it made an awful buzzing noise—and brought it down to his skin.

He felt his skin vibrate under the tool and the pain hit a second later.

"AARGH _STOP!_"

He yelped and struggled, but her grip was firm and merciless. His skin flared with pain, it felt hot but he knew the tool wasn't heated. He watched helplessly, sucking air between his teeth and gripping his elbow with his free hand as she carefully carved the numbers into his pale skin. Occasionally she wiped some of the residue off with the sleeve of her shirt, but her hold on him never wavered. Tears filled his eyes and he whimpered and seethed as he watched the numbers appear one-by-one.

766003

She released him, already beckoning her next unwilling customer. He was branded. They had taken away his name and replaced it with a number. He knew what this was. As he numbly joined the others being led to the last region of the building, he knew they knew as well.

* * *

_Another mother's breakin'  
Heart is taking over.  
When the violence causes silence,  
We must be mistaken. _

[Zombie – The Cranberries]

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**Story Recommendation:** Nightingale, by melkyre. A different kind of time travel/redo fic, from the Marauder's point of view. A shy Harry Privet joins the fifth year Gryffindor dorm room. Slash. Complete._I think I have read this fic at least three times now, and I just keep going back. I love Harry's personality in this story, it's endearing and interesting without weakening the character._

**Author's Note:** Review, let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 2: Fun Factory

**Chapter 2: Fun Factory**

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**Author's Note: **Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy the second chapter! Please let me know if you find any mistakes or have any questions that should have been answered by now. I hope the foreign dialogue in italics is clear to everyone...I threw in some Russian words when I thought it was easy enough to understand in context, just to add some flavor.

* * *

**The Damned**

**Chapter Two: Fun Factory**

By: Phantom of the Tech Booth

_I kneel before the one I must serve  
That keeps us both alive  
It's so fine it's sublime  
Just take me to the Fun Factory  
(Fun Factory)  
Life is not all that conjours  
Just grin and turn the dial  
Well it's me it's obscene  
Let's scream Fun Factory _

[Fun Factory – Damned]

* * *

Harry was dressed in old clothes that did not fit him. He was used to Dudley's hand-me-downs, but he didn't have a belt to hold the jeans up this time. Huge holes and shoddy patchwork marred his new denim, which he had rolled up so he wouldn't trip, and he had to tuck his smelly, long-sleeved shirt—a lovely puke green with what may have been actual puke stains on the front—into the waist line in order to keep his trousers up.

He and a handful of the men in their large group were brought to a barrack, one of dozens, possibly hundreds. The barrack was huge, long and plain. It resembled a wooden one-story barn that stretched quite far; the other barracks were built so close together that Harry couldn't tell how far back they went until he stepped inside. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Harry took in his new home—though how long he would be here, he hadn't a clue. He knew of only one escape, which a man in his group had already taken advantage of. Harry pursed his lips and blinked away the memory of the jittery man breaking free of the others and getting gunned down the next second.

Inside Barrack 17, deep shelves lined the walls top to bottom from the front all the way to the back. Upon closer inspection, Harry recognized these shelves as beds, stacked three high. They were packed in close to each other and he estimated approximately seventy of these beds in all, possibly more. The narrow space in the middle was occupied by a single long bench that almost stretched the entire length of the room, littered with a few stray cups and bowls. A wood stove sat at the far end of the bench, and behind that two men were working with shovels and hay.

Their guard led them to these men and Harry was able to glimpse at what they were working on, before quickly looking away from the latrine. The putrid smell that had assaulted his senses when he stepped inside became progressively worse as they approached the long trench that cut across the back end of the barrack, perpendicular to the beds. The men were shoveling a thin layer of hay and some sort of powder into the muck, but it didn't seem like it was doing much for the smell.

The guard rattled off some Russian and one of the men—not a man at all, but a teenage boy—lay his shovel against the wall, nodding at whatever was said. The guard quickly left, his monstrous gun slung over his back, and the newcomers were left with their roommates.

"You speak English?" the boy demanded in a thick accent. They nodded and he shook his head. "Stop it." They looked at him blankly. "Do not speak English in front of them," he elaborated, gesturing to where the guard had been. "They think you...they think you are saying bad things, if it is not Russian." A few of them nodded uneasily. "If you don't learn Russian quickly, you die quickly."

The boy continued staring at them, as if calculating their worth. The man who was still shoveling shit gave a chuckle and said something in Russian, to which the boy responded with a stream of what may have been angry profanities, but could just as well have been a recipe for blueberry pie for all they knew.

The sixteen-year-old introduced himself as Petya. He grimaced when Harry introduced himself.

"My brother Semyon is fifteen. He is the youngest I know here. How old are you?"

"I'll be thirteen next month," Harry offered quietly, uncomfortable with the eyes on him. Petya paused for what seemed like an eternity before he spoke again.

"Tell them you are fourteen, maybe you'll live." And with that, Petya moved onto the next person. Harry's heart plummeted into his stomach. He began wishing once more that his stupid wand was not still locked away in his stupid trunk on that stupid plane.

Petya spent the day teaching them simple phrases in Russian to help them survive the next few days. _Wake up, line up, roll call, what is your number, come here, _and more. He taught them how to recite their numbers and Harry rehearsed his in his mind like a mantra while running his fingers over the angry, raised skin on his arm:

_Syem, shyest, shyest, nul, nul, tree._

_Syem, shyest, shyest, nul, nul, tree._

_Syem, shyest, shyest, nul, nul, tree._

The mountain of a man who had been shoveling shit with Petya was a prisoner as well, though he seemed to be in charge. Petya called him "Boris, our _kapitan_, he keeps us fed," and gave him a friendly slap on the back, to which the man responded by shoving him away. Harry noticed that Boris, who was tall and broad but quite thin as well, wore clothes without holes or patches and shoes that probably fit. He gathered that each barrack had a _kapitan_, a prisoner chosen by the guards to hold reign over the others. Boris kept them in line when they were not being supervised, he (for the most part) chose who did what job each day, and he reported twice daily to the guards.

In return, Boris had his pick of clothes every month or so, received a double serving to eat, and didn't have to do as much manual labor as the other prisoners—though sometimes it couldn't be avoided if everyone was out and there were no chores to do in the barrack, Petya explained, throwing his shovel carelessly in a corner and filling a shallow basin with tepid water from a bucket by the stove. He passed Harry a rag and a chunk of soap and they set to work cleaning the bench in the middle. Harry asked if the other prisoners hated Boris, to which Petya laughed.

"No, no, no. Listen. He does these things to help us. If not him, a guard would do it. We do not want...angry guards with their guns in here all of the time, do we?" Harry shook his head no. "Besides, Boris has difficult job. Our _kapitan_ is responsible if someone is missing. They beat him if the _bar-ahk_ is not clean—"

"Why should they care about that?" Harry asked.

"'_Pochemu?'_" Petya corrected. Harry filed the word away for later, though he did not intend to question a guard. "Because they must come into the _bar-ahk_, they don't want to walk...ah, walk in shit."

Boris began yelling at the other men Harry had arrived with, gesticulating wildly as he explained (in Russian) how to properly sweep a dirt floor.

"We love our Boris _kapitan_," Petya smiled warmly.

* * *

When other prisoners finally returned after nightfall, they came in a series of large groups. Some stank like nothing Harry had ever smelled before—even worse than the latrine—and all were drenched in sweat. Some were in better spirits than others, but none paid much attention to the newcomers beyond their quick introduction. Boris added their names and numbers to a list and called roll before speaking briefly with a guard and shutting the doors for the night. Harry and the others had not set foot outside of Barrack 17 since they arrived sometime that morning; Petya convinced Boris to keep them out of sight for the first day. His hope was for them to learn enough to avoid getting killed on sight.

"You will go out with the others tomorrow," Petya warned him.

Harry was introduced to Semyon, Petya's younger brother, but the boy did not warm to him nearly as much as Petya seemed to have. In fact, Semyon was not the only one who glared at the newcomers with obvious contempt.

"Did we do something wrong?" Harry asked nervously as they sipped water from metal mugs on the bench that evening. Petya grimaced like he had when he first met the twelve-year-old.

"They are afraid," he explained quietly.

"Afraid?" Harry looked around at the bone-thin, gaunt faces around him. They were thin, so thin that Harry was confident he could wrap his fingers fully around any arm in the room, but they towered over him, outnumbered him. He was like a lion—a lion _cub—_in a sea of snakes. "What could _I_ do?"

"You can get them killed," Petya answered solemnly, his easy smile gone. "If you do not learn Russian quickly, you die quickly," he repeated. "And you can get those with you killed, too." Harry swallowed, looking back down at the bench that they used as both a seat and a table. He didn't want to get himself killed because he couldn't understand the language, but he certainly didn't want to endanger anyone who might be willing to help. He wondered if Petya was afraid of getting killed for associating with him, for trying to teach him Russian. _'Do not speak English in front of them,'_ he had warned.

Boris yelled a command Harry recognized as "bed time," though he couldn't identify the syllables. While the other newcomers hung back, waiting to see which of the bare beds were open, Petya grabbed Harry by his freshly inked arm and dragged him to a bed on the bottom row, toward the middle of the room. He was glad to be farther from the latrine than his English-speaking comrades, but he quickly became claustrophobic.

He was crammed between the two brothers at Petya's insistence. Petya explained that the other prisoners may not be as welcoming as him (_What if they try to kill me before I get them killed?_ Harry thought miserably), though Semyon did not seem happy to share their meager bed with a third person. There were about two hundred and fifty prisoners packed into seventy five hard wooden beds, by Petya's estimation. When Harry asked how many prisoners were in the camp entirely, Petya became quiet.

"It is difficult to count," was all he said.

"Many thousands," Semyon spoke.

Harry wondered how long these brothers had been interned to attain their current physique. At nearly thirteen (_Fourteen_, he reminded himself), he was almost bigger than fifteen-year-old Semyon, though what the younger brother lacked in weight he made up for in a few inches of height. Harry's stomach had been cramping with hunger for the past few days, but he had a feeling it wouldn't end any time soon.

* * *

The days passed by and soon Harry was celebrating his first week in the camp. It was a celebration, Petya said, because he had managed not to get himself or anyone else killed yet.

_Yet_.

Some of the other Englishmen were not quite so lucky. By the end of the first week, two out of the five men who had accompanied Harry to Barrack 17 had been killed. One had been thrown to his knees and executed quickly by a gunshot to the back of the head after he couldn't answer a question the irritated guard had asked in the middle of a work day.

"What did he ask him?" Harry whispered hoarsely, shaking, when they returned to laying bricks for a new building behind the guards quarters.

"He asked how many bricks he put down today," Petya answered. "_Skol-ko._"

"_Skol-ko..._" Harry repeated to himself, his voice trembling. "How many, _skol-ko_..."

Harry never saw the second Englishman die. He had been chosen sometime that morning by a guard Harry didn't recognize, one that wasn't usually assigned to their troop. The man's face had been bruised and bloodied, having gotten in a fight in the barrack. Harry didn't know for sure what the fight had been about, but he suspected it was more of an attack than a fight. _'And you can get those with you killed, too.'_ It was self-preservation. When Boris explained to a guard the next morning what was wrong with the man's face, the guard led the man away, never to be seen again.

When Harry asked Petya where he had gone, he only pointed to a cloud of smoke in the distance, puffing into the air like an ugly gray demon. _Or god,_ Harry thought sourly. Semyon never spoke to him much, but he did bother to tell him, spitefully, that the only way out of this place was through the smoke. Some people thought themselves exempt from this rule, but all went by way of smoke in the end. Harry's brow furrowed as he contemplated his situation, so far away from Dumbledore's influence.

He was stuck in this nightmare.

* * *

Each day began just before dawn, when Boris would rouse them all and they would quickly line up in front of the bunks for the longest roll call Harry had ever witnessed. A guard would come in toward the end and lead them to one of the breakfast nooks at the end of the line of barracks outside. Three barracks hit each breakfast shack at a time, so there was quite a line and it took nearly an hour before everyone was fed. They usually received some sort of thin soup, a hunk of dry bread, and a cup of black coffee—which was lukewarm, at best. Harry soon decided not to call this food 'breakfast,' because there was nothing else to necessitate the differentiation: this was their only meal each day.

By the time Harry estimated he must have hit his thirteenth birthday, what little extra weight he had begun with had fallen away. He was back to his stick-thin, pre-Hogwarts days, though he was still heavier than the prisoners who had been there longer than him. He was able to loosely determine how long someone had been in the camp based on their weight. Petya and Semyon were tragically thin, but, with a bit of muscle still hanging on, they were not as emaciated as those who resembled skeletons with a wispy layer of skin stretched across their bones. Petya and Semyon had been in the camp for three months by August, twice as long as Harry. Others in his barrack had been interned for five, six, even seven months. _Kapitan_ Boris had been there for eight hard months and spoke darkly of his first winter.

There didn't seem to be anyone who had been around for a year. Nobody lasted that long at _Chertovsky_, which is what the prisoners called the camp. _Chertovsky_. Damned. Harry tried to come to terms with the idea that in less than a year, maybe in a few hours, he would be dead. He wasn't particularly fond of what life had become, but instinct pushed him forward.

He was perpetually angry, irritated by every little thing—even relieving himself was a humiliating ordeal, though he was rapidly growing accustomed to the loss of his pride. One could not hold onto dignity after squatting over the trench in the back of the barrack, in front of everyone, while watery shit rained down his backside and splashed back up. On the plus side, he more often than not was able to use some semblance of toilet paper: the guards gave them "reading material," in the form of religious books promoting spirituality of some sort or another. Anything at all could trump atheism and apathy, it seemed, but the prisoners were grateful for at least being able to wipe their arses.

At the moment, they were setting cement by the Commandant's building, making a nice paved sidewalk to replace the planks of wood the Commandant currently used to avoid trekking through the mud. Petya was working with his brother a little ways off, but in sight. Harry listened to the Russian chatter around him, trying to acclimate himself further to the language. He was interrupted by a harsh voice above and looked up to see a guard staring down at him.

"_Stoyat!_"

Harry stood, trembling from head to foot.

"_Who...kapitan?_" Harry didn't catch all of it, but he was able to pick out a few words. He pointed down the row of workers and replied.

"Boris."

By now, Petya had stopped what he was doing to watch Harry with concern clearly written on his face, though he was helpless to do anything. Semyon had stopped as well.

"_How old are you?_"

"_Fourteen,_" Harry answered. The guard's hand shot out and grabbed him forcefully by the neck, pulling him close. His feet were dragged forward into the wet cement and he struggled to get his legs to support his weight again. "_SIR! Sir, fourteen, sir!_" he amended, gasping for breath and hoping he had corrected whatever mistake he might have made. The guard laughed—actually laughed—and let him go. He fell to his knees in the goop and scrambled back, managing to fall on his butt, eliciting another chuckle from the guard before the man called Boris over. He didn't seem angry, but that didn't mean much.

"_How old...?_" Harry didn't catch any more than that, but Boris answered swiftly, barely glancing at Harry.

"_Fourteen._"

The guard asked a series of questions, of which Harry understood little, but Boris's answers were calm, brief and, as far as Harry could tell, in his favor. The guard turned back to him and Harry scrambled to his feet.

"_What is your number?_"

"_Syem-shyest-shyest-nul-nul-tree, sir!_" The words spilled out of his mouth, loud and rushed, almost before the man finished the question. The guard roared with laughter, swatting Harry's arm away amiably when he lifted his sleeve to show him his number. He said something else then, but he was laughing too hard for Harry to catch on, before nodding to Boris and walking away. Boris said nothing, only looked pointedly at the botched cement before returning to work.

Harry dropped to his knees and began fixing the mess he had made. When he glanced up, Petya met his eye and winked, grinning like a goof. A proud goof. Harry smiled back, slightly delirious.

* * *

_The talk is cheap you know the guns are roaring now  
I'm snoring though not asleep  
Hey hey hey  
It's Ok  
We can play  
Fun Factory_

[Fun Factory – Damned]

* * *

**Story Recommendation:** The Basement, by Marz1. AU third year. I must have a sign on my back that says psycho paths please attack me. I would not put it beyond Dudley to afix such a sign to me, but I doubt he could spell it accurately enough for a psycho to understand. _Harry is kidnapped by Sirius, basically. A work of art, I honestly wish the third book had gone like this instead._

**Author's Note: **Hope you enjoyed the homage to Stalag 17! Has anyone else had any legendary roommate problems? My evil roommate is moving out Friday and I couldn't be happier to welcome my new roomie into the house Saturday. Got him a ribbon-wick candle as a housewarming gift and we're gonna watch Downton Abbey together and be fabulous.


	3. Chapter 3: The Politics of Starving

**Chapter 3: The Politics of Starving  
**

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the reviews! Please let me know if you find any mistakes or have any questions that should have been answered by now. I am aware of my tendency to linger in endless day-to-day scenes, so in this fic I attempt to keep things moving at a steady pace.

* * *

**The Damned**

**Chapter Three: The Politics of Starving**

By: Phantom of the Tech Booth

_They're all black and white people,  
and that doesn't have anything to do with us.  
After all these years it's still an arms race,  
after all these years they still don't fucking get it. _

[The Politics of Starving – Against Me!]

* * *

It was late September and the weather was cooling alarmingly quickly. Harry was glad he had chosen a long-sleeved shirt from the pile of disgusting clothing that summer. He was by now well acquainted with the stomach pangs of hunger but that certainly didn't make it any easier to bear. He was _hungry_. If there had been grass, he would have eaten it all, just to fill his belly and make the hard, twisting pain _stop_.

He spent his days with Petya and Semyon mostly; despite rapidly picking up Russian, his reputation as a foreigner left him without many people to turn to. It was hard to believe that the rest of the English-speaking plane passengers that had come with him to Barrack 17 were dead. The three who had made it past the first week dropped like flies soon after, but Harry survived. Somehow, Harry slipped through the cracks and made it to autumn.

_The Boy-Who-Lived indeed._

His hard-won days were filled with hunger pains, chafing _everywhere,_ shit-stained clothes, blisters on his feet from his ill-fitted shoes, more hunger pains, diarrhea, a skin rash in all the wrong places (on top of the chafing—did he mention the chafing?), and more bloody hunger pains. His skin was tanned from working outside, but the tan did nothing to improve his appearance. Sometimes they built more buildings to expand _Chertovsky_, other times they did meaningless labor, such as moving _that_ pile of bricks to _this_ pile of bricks and then moving the _new_ pile of bricks over _there _where the _old _pile had been. He hated every day, but he reserved a special kind of hatred for _those _days...

He learned a lot about his fellow prisoners and cared little for most of them, with two exceptions. Petya and Semyon had come to the camp with the rest of their immediate family, but they were all that was left. Their mother chose to go with their little sister—

"_To the gas_," Semyon muttered darkly.

Their father ended up in a different barrack, but didn't last beyond a few weeks. He received an injury while working—the brothers believed a heavy steel pipe had fallen on his foot in the construction of one of the more impressive buildings, but what they knew was only hear-say—and was taken away to the "hospital," never to be seen again.

Petya and Semyon told Harry all they knew about the camp, run by the Nebo (_nyeh-buh_). While the Nebo had been around for at least twenty years, the camp—the Nebo solution to moral decay—didn't come into fruition until the mid-1980s. When Harry asked why nobody had ever heard of this group, why they hadn't been stopped yet, Petya scoffed.

"_Rumors are everywhere_," he argued, speaking Russian but providing a few English words when Harry became confused. "_People don't want to believe, so they ignore it. When the survivors 'disappear,' they're forgotten_." Harry didn't recall hearing any rumors of this fanatical militant cult of genocidal Russians, but then again, he had barely been eleven when he left the Muggle world, and what primary school taught the dark side of international politics?

_Where is Dumbledore?_ Harry couldn't help but wonder what his friends and professors were thinking now that school had been in session for a few weeks. He hesitated to think if Dumbledore knew exactly where he was, just as he had known about his cupboard under the stairs...but then, why hadn't he come? Harry had remained cautiously hopeful until September came about.

Now he was quickly losing faith.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was pacing in his office, in his pyjamas, in the middle of the night. The portraits on the walls, having become bored with this oft-seen spectacle, slept in their frames, but Fawkes kept a keen eye on his master.

Harry Potter had gone missing over the summer. Vernon Dursley revealed that he had personally seen young Harry off on a plane to Italy, but the plane, according to Muggle authorities, had been hijacked and deserted somewhere in the Czech Republic. The few passengers who had been released described Russian perpetrators, the Nebo, but couldn't say what had become of the rest of the passengers.

The world was in an outrage. Muggles were so wrapped up in their politics, they seemed to have forgotten those who had actually been kidnapped. The Wizarding World was calling for the Russian magical authorities to hand over the Boy-Who-Lived, though Dumbledore knew the Russians were no closer to finding Harry Potter than he was. It was a tricky situation, and time was running out.

Dumbledore had heard of the Nebo, but did not know the extent of their reach. It was rumored that there was a Nebo rehabilitation facility, a concentration camp deep in the wilderness of Russia, but this rumor had been disclaimed by reputable sources and Dumbledore could only hope it was indeed false.

But then—what had become of Harry Potter?

Fawkes was either unwilling or unable to find the boy, and the spellwork in the Hogwarts admissions system only worked on students once a year, and only if they were within range. It did not work well overseas. _It does not work at all for the deceased_, he thought grimly, recalling the disappointment he experienced when Harry's annual letter had failed to address itself.

Harry Potter's disappearance was not the only thing splattered all over the media. Sirius Black had broken out of prison over the summer as well, and Dumbledore had reluctantly agreed, after one or two possible sightings close by, to allow the dementors to guard Hogwarts. He thought of Remus Lupin during his somber pacing: the poor man had agreed to come to Hogwarts to teach for many reasons, chief among them was Harry James Potter.

Now the child was missing, possibly dead, and there was a massive manhunt underway for Lupin's former friend-turned-traitor-turned-fugitive.

Dumbledore stopped pacing. He placed a withered hand on his desk, leaning on it wearily. Fawkes trilled a few notes, but it didn't help. He was as lost as Harry.

* * *

Harry and forty-nine other prisoners were lined up: twenty-five in this line, facing that way, and twenty-five in the other line, facing the other way so that their backs were to each other. There was six feet in between each line and everyone kept their heads down as a guard patrolled the gap, casually swinging his gun on his arm.

A frail old man—probably not as old as he looked—was trembling from head to foot with the effort. He was the first to go. When he shifted his footing, his knees buckled and he was shot in the back before he could get back to his feet.

They had been standing for ten hours. That was their task for the day. Stand still, keep your head down, and try not to piss yourself. Harry bit his lip and fought back tears when he felt his bladder release. Warmth flooded the front of his trousers, trickling down his legs and into his shoes. He wished Petya had been assigned to this group as well so he could shrug, uncaring, as if it wasn't a big deal that he had soiled himself. Petya always had a way to make him feel better, just like Ron and Hermione.

* * *

Hermione watched the back of Ron's head from across the room. She sat in one corner, half-way through an essay she couldn't bring herself to care about, while Ron sat in another corner, playing chess by himself. She sighed and snapped her book shut, approaching Ron cautiously.

"They'll find him," she said softly. Ron didn't turn around.

"They haven't found him yet," came his terse reply.

"Don't give up on him."

Ron looked down at his shoe, not turning around completely but revealing the side of his face. He didn't say anything, but his gesture to the game board said it all. Hermione dropped into the seat across from him and joined the game.

"Barbaric..." she muttered a minute later when she lost her queen.

* * *

Harry, Petya and Semyon had already devoured their food and were waiting for their dismissal to go to work. Petya had been assigned barrack duty, Semyon was scouring pots, and Harry was being sent to the construction site to piece together turnbuckles—the construction site was on the other side of the compound.

"_That's where the women's camp is_," Petya teased. Harry rolled his eyes from his perch atop the wooden fence behind the breakfast shack, where they kept pigs for the guards' meals.

"_How do you say _horn-dog_ in Russian?_" Harry said, smirking. Petya burst out laughing but Semyon wrinkled his brow, not understanding.

Harry enjoyed these moments. They kept to themselves after their meal; there were too many of them for the guards to properly patrol or keep order, so the prisoners were left to socialize until everyone had been fed and it was time to work. Even his constant discomfort, with the soreness and the rash and the chafing, didn't seem so uncomfortable when he was relaxing by the breakfast shacks each morning. Harry and the brothers continued laughing, joking, and teasing each other until Petya shoved him back and he fell into the pig pen which housed the guards' fresh meat. He launched himself back over the railing and tackled Petya to the ground, wrestling playfully in the mud and ignoring Semyon's attempts to berate their childish behavior.

* * *

Sirius Black, or rather Padfoot, was eating a cold cheeseburger he had scored from a rubbish bin somewhere in France. Bloody _France_. They didn't even call it a cheeseburger here, they called it a _royale with cheese_. Unfuckingbelievable. But delicious, considering he hadn't had anything but rats—French rats—to eat in days.

He had given up his search for Wormtail—at least, temporarily. He would get back to that little rat soon enough. First, he had something much more precious to attend to.

His godson was missing.

Stolen away to Russia by some freaky cult that wanted world peace, with a genocidal plan to achieve it. Nobody knew where this camp was, most people didn't even want to believe it existed, but Sirius wasn't so stupid. This had all happened before in the Muggle world, had almost happened in the Wizarding World a few years ago. And now it was happening to little Harry.

_He'd be thirteen now,_ he reminded himself, gagging on a mushy pickle. He couldn't imagine what the child looked like now, probably just like James! But he would still have Lily's gorgeous green eyes, yes, with her fiery little spark. He remembered how the boy's eyes had glittered when he smiled. Sirius would do anything to make his godson laugh, to see the room light up with those giggles. He had to get him back. He would do anything to find him, to get lost in those green orbs, to treasure that beautiful smile. He wouldn't give up until Harry was safely back in the Gryffindor common room, and the Dursley's were dead, and that rat was torn to pieces.

He had to get him back.

* * *

Harry was awoken well before dawn by something digging into his backside. He was spooned in between the brothers and welcomed the body heat where he had once cursed the claustrophobia. But he did not welcome Semyon's sleeping erection. He grimaced and shifted up so that it fell somewhere below his bottom, where it could safely _not touch_ him.

He never had this problem in the Gryffindor dorms.

* * *

Remus Lupin marked yet another meaningless grade on yet another horrible essay, utterly numb to the world. It was two in the morning and he couldn't sleep. He hadn't slept a full night in ages and it did nothing to help his already pale appearance. On the plus side, he was grading papers incredibly fast and students never had to wait long to see their marks. But there was one student whose papers he hadn't been grading.

Harry Potter.

The baby boy of his two dear friends had grown up and, just as Remus was about to make a connection, disappeared. His kidnapping and possible murder had shaken Remus to the bone. It took him twelve years to muster up the courage to face Harry again, and now he was left with a gaping hole in his heart, a hole that had been there for over a decade but was torn anew this summer. The boy was gone, likely for good.

He dropped his head in his hands. He mustn't think like that, not now. They would get him back, they must. The Nebo couldn't hide him forever, the entire Wizarding World was searching high and low for him. A group of psychotic Muggles couldn't win out against the entire magical community, not when their savior was involved.

But when Remus looked at Harry's school pictures from the previous two years, he didn't see a savior. He saw the little boy that had brought joy to their war-torn lives all those years ago. He saw a skinny kid with a self-deprecating grin and hopeful, endearingly uncertain eyes hidden behind the ugliest pair of glasses he had seen since the '70s. He saw happiness, and potential, and a caring heart that may never get the chance to experience the world because some gun-toting arseholes had stolen him away.

Remus couldn't stand the third year Gryffindor class...at least not without a glass of brandy in his system. The way Mr. Weasley looked with his greasy hair and sullen expression, accusing him and the rest of the faculty—the world—of losing his friend. Ms. Granger, her pale face peppered with pimples, eyes that were constantly red and puffy, but trying nevertheless to maintain her grades. He hated seeing them. He hated himself for wanting to see them more, to see what kinds of friends Harry had made for himself here at Hogwarts. He hated these papers. He hated all of it.

* * *

It was mid-October. Harry was tired, sore, hungry, and cold. Those native to this climate seemed to be handling the snowy weather well enough, but he was fighting the sniffles about as easily as a fish fights...a basilisk. Or whatever. He couldn't think straight if his life depended on it. And it did.

His Russian was improving, but his body was betraying him. If he could have even passed for fourteen before, he certainly wasn't cutting it now. Three times this week he had been pulled aside to be questioned about his age. It was no coincidence that children were not found in the camp. The conditions, the Commandant said, were not suitable for children.

"_We are not monsters_," he had said, looking between Harry and their new _kapitan_, Misha. "_We would never subject a child to this treatment. I will ask again, how old are you?_"

Harry had made it off the hook that time—claiming off-handedly to have been stunted in growth in his prepubescent years (which, by now, was no doubt true).

Misha, a poor substitute for the late Boris, was eager to be rid of Harry, but Petya and Semyon had made it clear that if he were to sacrifice Harry, he would be sacrificing himself as well.

"_For the good of the barrack_," Semyon had said savagely.

Harry and Semyon were not exactly friends—or maybe they were, Harry could never tell what the moody teenager was thinking. Semyon had joined Petya's mission to shield Harry from the others, but he offered no advice. He only spoke to him when necessary and more often than not glared daggers at him when he tried to start a conversation. Normally, Harry would have been put off by his behavior, but he was too tired to give a shit. And too starved to give a literal shit. His body was wearing down. He wasn't sure how much more he could take before he caught a cold that turned into something much worse.

"_They will gas you before it gets worse,_" Petya reassured him.

"_They don't want it spreading,_" Semyon explained. "_There's not exactly a hospital nearby._"

"_Not a real one anyway,_" Petya grumbled, looking over at the cloud of smoke.

The gas chambers were all too real, Harry learned. Everyone served a rotation: the officers themselves did not want to expose themselves to any residual gas, so they forced other prisoners to go in and clear out the bodies. Harry had done so only once, and he had thought he would never see the light of day again. One of the men who had gone in with him panicked on their way down, sobbing and shrieking that they would close the doors behind them and gas them as well—which had apparently happened before, though Harry didn't know that at the time. He only knew that walking into the chamber was like walking into a grave. Every inch of the floor was covered in bodies, the acrid stench of gas burned his nose while the unmistakable smell of urine and defecation offered the only sense of familiarity. It was an alien experience, to drag out someone who had been alive minutes before—terrified and screaming, pissing themselves and hurling their meager breakfasts—, take a gulp of fresh air, and return to begin dragging out another.

The bodies were naked, but Harry had lost his sense of shame in nudity long ago. Once a month they were made to strip so they could be hosed down. Each month it got worse as the cold bit their raw skin, and Harry began wishing that they would just let them stink forever. Nothing could stink worse than the bodies in these chambers, though. Men, women, children, it didn't matter—everyone met their end. If there was a survivor—and though Harry hadn't seen it, there apparently were occasional survivors, choking on their own blood—they were to alert an officer immediately, so they could be swiftly put out of their misery.

Harry thought he would rather die than have body duty again, but Petya told him to suck it up. Semyon agreed. Harry wondered what it would be like to have to drag out those urine-soaked corpses, knowing that at some point, your own family had been among them. He was sorry for the boys' hardship, but grateful for their loyalty in the face of a new, more selfish _kapitan_.

He had been sad to see Boris go. Horrified, really. A man and his son had come to the camp and were on their way to the gas chamber when Boris spotted them. The man was his brother; the boy, his nephew. Boris _lost his shit_, in Harry's humble opinion, and broke from the group, attacking the guards escorting them away. The Commandant decided to make an example of this behavior in the most disgusting manner possible.

The Commandant, the most sadistic, twisted human being Harry had ever met, strung up the father and son, hanging them by the neck for the entire block of barracks to see. Everyone was forced to watch and Boris got a front row seat to see his young nephew kicking and jerking around. The man died instantly of a broken neck, but the boy didn't weigh enough to snap anything after they kicked the stool out from under him, so he was left to strangle to death. It took ages. Harry shuddered, unable to grasp what kind of man forced that on a child just to prove a point. Boris endured the spectacle stoically, but the first chance he got, he reached for a guard's gun, receiving an instant barrage of bullets in response.

And Misha, that oily bastard, was promoted to _kapitan_.

* * *

It was sometime in November and Padfoot was now in Russia. Somewhere in Russia, in fucking November. It was seriously cold. He had stolen a wand off an unsuspecting tourist sometime ago, but the wand quite honestly _hated_ him. It backfired often, nearly setting him on fire the first time he tried a warming spell. He had found enough of a balance to use a proper, non-combusting warming spell now, but he didn't trust much else besides a "point me," and he could find the ruddy north, thank you very much. Except for that one time, when it was super cloudy.

He occasionally returned to his human form for reasons beyond using magic. It was risky, but he had to do his research and you couldn't exactly interrogate someone as a dog. He knew by now the Nebo symbol, which increased in popularity as he continued traveling. He found the symbol carved into doors, signs, posted on churches, even featured on sweaters and jewelry: a square with two opposing horizontal lines, one coming out of the top and another coming out of the bottom. He knew the approximate location of the camp—_Chertovsky, _they called it. At least he knew where _some_ people _thought_ it _might_ be _if_ it existed.

He had to believe. He couldn't give up hope. His heart was telling him that Harry was out there, alive, and probably fucking cold and hungry if the rumors were true about this camp. _Designed to be just like the German camps_, one well-traveled bloke had whispered back in Hungary. Sirius suspected he might have been a survivor, but he didn't stick around long enough to find out his life story. He had to get a move on. Every moment wasted was another step closer to losing his godson.

He was closing in.

* * *

It was early December, that much Harry knew. Beyond that, he was nearly out of his mind. He was losing his hold on sanity, or at least rationality. Petya had to drag Harry's arse out of what passed for a bed every morning; otherwise, he was content to lie there and let the guards end it quickly. Once he was up and fed and caffeinated, he went about his day just like everyone else: in a sloppy, morose sort of way. _Not brushing your teeth for six months will do that to you, _a sardonic little voice in his head told him.

Petya was not doing well. Semyon obsessed over his brother, shutting Harry out when he tried to help, but really, what help could anyone give? Petya had a wet cough and clammy skin. Clammy skin in fucking December in goddamned Russia did not yield a positive prognosis under any circumstances. In _Chertovsky_, it was only a matter of days before he was found out.

"_It is a Russian winter, my friends_," Petya was saying to them melodramatically to off-set the defeated gazes Harry and Semyon were sending his way as they marched to their worksite for the day. Harry had given him his coffee this morning while Semyon offered his bread every morning, but Petya refused the extra food. "_Don't waste it_," he had said. Harry was astounded by Semyon's care for his brother: he couldn't imagine giving up his bit of food in the mornings. He hated himself for his selfishness, but the ever-present, gnawing pain in his stomach left no room for martyrdom. The lack of bread wouldn't have killed him (most likely). Worse, it would have only exacerbated his torture.

They arrived at their worksite and Harry's heart dropped. Huge rocks were lying in an icy, haphazard pile and he had a feeling they wouldn't actually be used for anything other than running their crumbling bodies into the ground. Just as he suspected, they were ordered to move each massive rock—the lightest of which probably weighed as much as he did—to the other end of the yard. It was a test of strength, in romantic terms. A death sentence in reality. The dogs were lined up by the officers, waiting for the order to chow down on anyone who fell behind.

Harry glanced over worriedly at Petya, but Semyon was shielding his face as he supported him, a glint in his eyes.

They began.

To say Harry was troubled when he tried to lift the first rock would be an understatement. A rush of adrenaline, no stranger to his weary body, coursed through his veins when he realized that each rock was quite a bit heavier than he had earlier estimated. Or maybe it just felt that way after six months of internment; his body had literally eaten its own muscle tissue, just to keep his heart pumping and his lungs breathing. He was one of the skeletons now, and it would not be long before he dropped dead. It might be today, if his struggles were anything to go by.

He let out a growl when he lifted a rock, using his bony arms to support it against his pelvis, only to drop it half way across the yard. He quickly hoisted it up again without daring to look up and catch a guard's eye. He dropped it at the other side and walked as slowly as he dared back to the original pile, watching Petya and Semyon team-lift a rock across the yard. A guard tore Semyon away from Petya, who fell, and Harry held his breath as the older brother painstakingly pulled himself back to his feet, biting back his cough. Petya somehow gathered enough strength to pick up the rock himself while Semyon went back for his own.

Every rock presented a new challenge. They fought over the lighter ones and Harry, being smaller, always lost. Every rock was a potential death sentence, and every time he dropped it in the new pile, a sense of relief as well as horror filled him during his trek back to the slowly diminishing pile. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this up. His throat was raw, it hurt to breathe, his skin was sweaty in the freezing air, and his feet were numb. His hands shook uncontrollably as he reached for a new stone and he was sure he would collapse.

The dogs were released. Harry gasped and fell, scrambling on top of the meager pile to avoid certain death. A shriek rang out in the dark sky—it was always dark now, day or night—and an agonizingly familiar moan cut through Harry like a dagger. He turned around and looked down from the pile while others climbed up to join him, eager to escape the carnage.

Petya was on the frozen ground, surrounded by hounds twice his size, screaming as they tore into his flesh—or rather, gnawed on his bones, as there wasn't much flesh to chew. Semyon's voice joined his brothers as he screamed in outrage and panic, trying desperately to fight through the dogs and rescue his brother. A guard shot at him—and missed—for his efforts, and he fell away when one of the dogs turned its attention on him. Harry couldn't look away as Petya's voice trailed off, as his pink-and-purple innards were dragged out before his own eyes, as his life drained. Harry choked back a dry sob and dug his fingers into the crevices of the rocks beneath him, his vision swimming, his world tipping.

He was chosen to bring Petya's body to be burned. The guards thought it a laugh to see their miniature prisoner struggling to load a half-eaten body into a wheelbarrow and push it across the camp to the smoke stacks. Semyon's injuries were ignored, for the time being. Misha would do his best to patch him up, but if the wounds festered, the boy would surely be killed as well.

It was one of the most difficult tasks he had ever done: to wheel his best friend's broken body to the cremation pits. Petya's stark-white face stared up at him from the wheelbarrow, all laughter and joking gone, replaced by horror and agony and fear. His death had not been quick, he had not gone with a joke on his lips and a gun to his head (as, he once confessed, was his hope). He had left this world screaming.

Harry's eyes welled up with tears and he began openly sobbing as he pushed the wheelbarrow through the frozen mud, his frost-bitten fingers clenching at the wooden bars because that's all he could hold onto. He was vaguely away of one of the dogs from earlier at his side and he resisted the urge to pound the mutt into the ground. He'd only be torn to pieces for his efforts anyway. He was no match against a dog, much less a guard, much less an army of Nebo who wanted nothing more than to see carnage and call it justice.

The officers didn't look twice as he pushed Petya's mutilated remains through the gate at the smoke stack. When Harry returned to the barrack later that night, he wouldn't remember much about Petya's cremation, though he had stayed to see him escape the camp in the end. He only remembered that a prisoner with dead eyes had taken Petya's once warm, familiar body and deftly slipped it onto a roller, pushing it into an oven and closing the grate.

* * *

Padfoot could only watch from the sidelines in horror as the dogs around him pounced on a prisoner—or what was left of a prisoner, after months of starvation and hard labor. He would not have found his godson—safe, for now, on that pile of rocks—if not for his familiar scent, and he would not have recognized him if not for his haircut, which revealed that infamous scar. The hair was long enough now to cover some of the scar, but it had grown in thin and choppy, sitting dankly atop Harry's red, tear-streaked face.

It broke Sirius's heart to see his godson in such a condition, it shook him to the core to see little Harry perched up on those rocks, crying, moaning, without words. A guard kicked him for not joining the other dogs and Sirius took his opportunity to walk with Harry as he was forced to take his fallen comrade away. Sirius didn't know exactly where they were going, but if the growing stench in the air was any indication, it was not going to be a pleasant experience.

He offered Harry what little comfort he could—he licked his hand and nuzzled his leg, hoping to at least distinguish himself from the man-eating dogs so he could stop trembling from fear. He received no response. His godson was dead to the world.

* * *

_For all the fights, for all the songs, all we said.  
All we have is these pictures of us.  
If it doesn't matter now then it never really did,  
And without this we might as well be dead._

_When you are so hungry that you'd believe anything._  
_Well they're selling you the politics of starving._  
_And what the fuck does that really mean to us?_

[The Politics of Starving – Against Me!]

* * *

**Story Recommendation: **On the Run, by dozygirl. What if Wormtail was just a bit braver? Or perhaps just a little more scared of Sirius Black. AU during PoA. Wormtail kidnaps Harry and goes on the run, leaving Sirius to follow and try to rescue his godson. _I seem to like Harry-gets-kidnapped fics, huh? I figured you don't want a list of crossover stories, though. Well-written, great pace, exciting plot, and realistic characterizations. What more could you ask for?_ _Oh, I know—a fantastic ending._

**Author's Note: **MY ROOMMATE FROM HELL MOVED OUT! It's over. It's all over.

Ignore me. Review, let me know what you liked or didn't like in this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4: Fallen Flowers

**Chapter 4: Fallen Flowers**

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you again for your reviews! Here you are, new chapter, freshly edited, hope you like it! In case you're wondering: no, I don't really have an explanation for Sirius's apparent obsession with Pulp Fiction references in his thoughts. The movie would not even be out at this point, and I can't see how he would have seen it even if it had been released a year or two previously. I just like to think of him as a Pulp Fiction kind of guy. Some people are just born with it...right?

* * *

**The Damned**

**Chapter Four: Fallen Flowers**

By: Phantom of the Tech Booth

_Ma, if I could live my life again  
If I could call the world my friend  
If I could write the story's end (I would)  
I would give all these things in vain  
To feel you hold me once again _

[Fallen Flowers – Steve McDonald]

* * *

The world seemed colder without Petya.

Semyon never spoke. He never looked at Harry, not even when they climbed into the same bunk and huddled close for warmth. There was no warmth left. The wood stove was nothing compared to Petya's company, though everyone—Harry and Semyon included—fought for the bunks closest to the stove. If Harry had been apathetic before, he was downright stoney now. There was nothing left for him. Just the cold and that damn wood stove.

A big black dog had taken to following him around. It smelled foul, like everyone else. He remembered the dog from the day Petya died, but he didn't remember it as one of the attack dogs. Even now it seemed too gentle for that, too quizzical. But Harry couldn't be sure. It slept outside their barrack every night and joined them wherever they went, occasionally chasing down a rat for food. The guards let it be, figuring it was one of their own, but Harry was beginning to think it was a stray that had wandered into the camp.

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. The hunger pains didn't matter, they were just another part of life that made death worth attaining. Harry began fantasizing about—instead of fearing—various ways to get himself killed throughout each day. If he ran at the fence there, he'd be shot down. If he threw a rock at the Commandant, he'd be hanged or maybe sent to the "hospital" for medical experiments or whatever it was that happened under that roof. If he was assigned body duty again and lingered in the gas chamber, they'd likely shut him in there with the next crowd. All of it seemed like so much _work_. He couldn't bring himself to do anything more than stand in line and nod his head. If only there were a way for him to just shut it all down, easily, quickly...

The cold was every part of him. It was in his bones, in his heart, in his head. He wished every night that the cold would take him and be done with it.

* * *

Hermione would be going to the Burrow for Christmas. School would let out the week after next and Dumbledore had encouraged her to spend time with the Weasley family, hinting that Ron would need her presence. She wasn't sure what she could do for the surly ginger. His temperament was practically explosive lately. She had taken to hiding in a back room of the library, to "study."

She tucked her head into her arms, not even bothering to pull out her books. She kept telling everyone not to give up on Harry, to stay hopeful. But it had been six agonizing months of timid conversations with Ron and forced smiles with the professors. All she could do now, alone in her isolated study room in the back of the library, was cry.

* * *

Remus was at his breaking point. Sirius Black had been spotted, apparently moving further away from England and, he noticed, closer to Russia. The bastard was still going after young Harry, when the boy was facing a death sentence—if he was even still alive at this point. Remus made a scratchy moaning noise in his evening tea, squeezing through a throat that was tight with emotion. He pulled at his hair. He had never felt so helpless.

* * *

Sirius Black was not giving up. He would get through to Harry. There had to be something left, there _had_ to. He smelled the grief exuding from the boy—among other things—but he had not trekked across the damn continent to give up on him now.

He finally managed to steal a potato—a whole potato!—from the kitchens and quickly made his way through a crowd of starving prisoners to where Harry sat, slurping his cold soup from a dirty bowl. Padfoot growled vehemently at a few hands that tried to take his prize, sleuthing his way over to his godson, who stared at him blankly. Padfoot nudged his hand encouragingly until Harry held his palm out. He dropped the potato into his hand and sat, tongue lolling out of his mouth with pride.

The boy barely glanced at the ruddy potato before tucking it quickly into the folds of his disgusting coat. He stared at Padfoot curiously before saying something in Russian. Padfoot cocked his head—he didn't understand a word of that bloody language and, given his experience in Russia, he had no interest in learning it. Russia was not exactly on his list of vacation destinations. All he wanted was to get Harry and get out. Harry continued muttering to him in Russian throughout the day and Padfoot become more than a bit frustrated with the language barrier.

_English, mutherfucker, do you speak it?!_

Harry cautiously befriended the scruffy dog. He named him Snuffles, to Sirius's chagrin, and took care not to pet him in front of any guards, lest they figure out he wasn't exactly on their side. Sirius—Snuffles—stole food for Harry when he could, but mostly sustained himself on rats, if he could find any in this barren wasteland. It seemed that most of the rats had been smart enough to die off when the snow came. The other prisoners avoided Snuffles like the plague, convinced he would try to eat them. He couldn't blame them for this misconception, not after his first day in the camp...

Harry seemed to be friends with just one other person in the camp, a boy called Semyon. Sirius recognized him as the one who had nearly gotten himself killed trying to help the other boy who was mauled by dogs that first day. Perhaps Harry had been friends with both of them at one time, but it did not seem to be going well now. Semyon was angry and took it out on Harry. More than once Snuffles had to come between the older boy and his godson, though he never bit him. Harry would have none of it when he even growled at him. He could still smell Semyon on Harry, so he supposed they at least bunked together in that stink-hole they called home. All in all, it was a complex relationship and it made Sirius all the more eager to rescue Harry from this cold hell.

The solution was complicated. He couldn't exactly reveal himself to Harry as an animagus—the kid could freak. He knew magic but would he know about animagi? Had McGonagall gotten to that yet in his Transfiguration class? And he couldn't trust his stolen wand to Apparate them both out of there. If he couldn't perform the simplest of spells without serious repercussions with this wand, he knew he couldn't Apparate even himself out of there without causing a splinch. He cursed himself for not being more patient, more selective about the wand he nicked.

He could feel his own emaciated body falling to waste in this hellhole. He may have damned them both with his rash decision to swipe first, ask questions later.

* * *

It was a week or so after Petya's death and Harry, despite making a new friend in the stray dog, was not doing well. His body was betraying him; it had become his worst enemy. He was achy and sore and chafing and frost-bitten and dry and cracked. His clothes were as thin and raggedy as he was, with the added bonus of being crusted over with frozen shit after Semyon pushed him into the latrine one night.

_Joke's on him, we share a bed_, Harry thought spitefully. He knew Semyon didn't truly blame him for Petya's death, but it hurt nonetheless. Then again, hurt feelings weren't worth dick when you were so hungry you couldn't think straight. His head was foggy with angst and a healthy dose of delirium. His body had never weighed so little and felt so heavy. He hadn't seen himself in a mirror since June but he was sure he had bald spots, his eyes and cheeks were likely hollow shells, and he could see for himself just how eerily thin his body had gotten. His stomach was a pit—his torso just an assortment of ribs with skin stretched from his bony shoulders to his protruding hips, where the skin had turned red and blotchy from who knows what kind of rash.

His body was already dead and decaying, yet he was still stuck inside, trying to function. Trying to slow the decomposition with watery soup and stale bread once a day. But it was a no-go.

He was spent.

Harry was working by Semyon's side as they tried to dig a trench in the frozen ground. _Everything_ was frozen. Harry couldn't even remember a time when he had felt warmth. Russian winters were unbearably cold, _beyond_ cold. He was no match for this unforgiving terrain. He didn't know what this particular frozen trench would be for, nor did he care. They were on the less-developed side of camp, where construction was still underway. A cement wall still barricaded them inside, but there was not much else around except a flimsy shack, a partially-dug trench, a tool shed and a bulldozer.

Some prisoners in their party were assigned to pour huge barrels of boiling water on the ground, wearing down the frozen layer until they could power through the muck underneath. Everyone else had a shovel, and the line of diggers seemed to go on forever. Snuffles was somewhere behind Harry, keeping a safe distance but watching over him all the same. He didn't know quite what to make of this dog's odd loyalty, but he couldn't bring himself to dwell on it for long.

A tickling in his throat caught his attention. He recognized the feeling for what it was, and began working up a wad of spit in his mouth. He tried to swallow—it hurt to swallow these days—, tried to calm the feeling, but it became unbearable. It happened and because he had tried to hold it in, he made it that much worse.

He coughed.

Worse, he broke down into a coughing fit.

It was the wet cough Petya had had, he knew. That was the problem with sharing body heat at night—it kept you warm but you shared each others germs as well.

He struggled to keep digging, saw Snuffles stand and wag his tail nervously out of the corner of his eye. Semyon tensed—did he step away from him? He couldn't tell, he could only bite his scarf and try to hold it in. But it was no use. The coughs kept coming, kept choking him on their way out and causing more coughs to bubble up, and a guard was already on his way over.

The damn officer stood before him, watching him struggle to stay upright despite a purpling face, despite the coughs that racked his entire body. Only when Harry stopped coughing long enough to gulp down a few greedy breaths of air did the man speak.

"_What is your number?_"

Harry closed his eyes.

"_Syem, shyest, shyest, nul, nul, tree._"

"_Kapitan!_" The guard shouted. Misha ditched his shovel and shuffled over. "_Take down his number._" Harry set his jaw and stared straight ahead as he bared his arm, allowing Misha to hastily write his number on a notepad.

Misha didn't look at him. Semyon didn't look at him. Nobody met his eyes as he was led away by the guard, his shovel abandoned.

Snuffles started after him, his tail between his legs, but Harry turned again and pushed him back to Semyon. _"Stay here, boy,_" he muttered. When he was sure Snuffles would stay put, he joined another group of people, a distinct group of people.

Everyone in this pathetic group was damned.

They were the damned of the damned in _Chertovsky_. The coughing, shaking, hacking, moaning damned. They marched across the frozen mud, not far from the construction site, straight to the quad between the "hospital" and the smoke stacks.

This was where the gas chambers were.

The chambers were underground, reached by a small set of stairs that led down to a short cellar door. There were three chambers in all, and they were headed for the third in the line.

"_Present your numbers for inspection,_" demanded one of the guards. In a group of perhaps thirty prisoners, Harry joined the line, lifted his sleeve, and stuck his arm out, defiantly—as if defiance in baring his number might quell the shaking fear that threatened to consume him. The hunger pains were gone, replaced by toe-curling terror.

His number was recorded for the second time that day (_his last day_), this time by the guard. They liked to be thorough here at _Chertovsky_.

"_Strip._"

Harry nearly keeled over with nerves. He threw his shirt and shoes in the cart off to the side before fumbling with the button on his trousers. He dropped them and bared his arse to the world alongside the rest of them, lit by floodlights and shivering naked in the freezing air, except it didn't seem so cold anymore...at least, the cold didn't bother him as it once had.

A guard descended the stairs first to open the heavy door, and then the first officer jerked his head, indicating for them to load into the chamber.

Harry's heart was beating wildly as he huddled with the others. Each of the stone steps down into that pit brought him closer to his grave. He remembered the last time he had set foot in one of these rooms—he would not be coming out this time.

He felt his world closing in as the last bit of the dark sky fell away. He entered the chamber. He would never see the outside of it again. His last view on earth would be of this small grey cement room. He felt utterly alone. When fantasizing about this moment, he thought he would remember his friends and Hogwarts and Quidditch as he faced his death, but he thought of his parents. He wondered if his mum and dad could have ever imagined this fate for the son they sacrificed it all for...he remembered their faces in the Mirror of Erised, how sadness laced their beaming faces...

_What a waste._

As the terrified prisoners shifted around to make room for everyone, he was pushed to the back corner. The room was tiny and with thirty people crammed inside, Harry wondered if everyone would fit. He thought of his Gryffindor teammates crowding into the locker room after practice, stripping for showers.

_I hope we beat Slytherin this year._

The door closed with a haunting thud and the room fell silent except for a few stray sobs and rapid, shallow breathing. The room was lit by a single bulb in the middle of the low ceiling, and it bounced around as it was jostled by those in the middle of the crowd. He thought of the bulb in his cupboard under the stairs and how he had to secretly switch the burned-out bulb with a working one from the family room so his aunt wouldn't complain about what a burden he was on their family.

_All for this_.

It was eerily quiet.

Harry heard voices from outside. He felt numb and sick and scared. His head was fuzzy and his heart was beating fast, too fast—

Then a _clang_ and a sliding noise from above. Harry looked up from his corner just in time to see a waterfall of blue pellets fall from a slot in the ceiling. They hit the ground with a series of popping sounds, and people began screaming and jumping, backing away from them in a full panic. Harry couldn't see much—the lightbulb was throwing insane shadows everywhere in the roar of activity, and he was the shortest in the room. He didn't know if he joined the screaming or if he moaned in a voice not quite his own.

The bodies around him pressed against him just as the gas hit; his throat burned and his eyes teared up. The last thing he knew was a horrible feeling in his lungs and throat—as if sandpaper tore apart his throat while his lungs coughed up acid—before a body fell on top of him, dragging him down into the darkness...

* * *

There were noises. Maybe a voice or two, but mostly just a soft noise he didn't recognize. He was cold. He might have been naked. A fierce fire was in his throat and a cough broke out, splattering what may have been spit, or mucus, or blood. The noises stopped, whatever they were. Someone's dry hands turned him over cautiously and he cracked an eye open. A woman was staring down at him with shock pulling at her pale features. He spluttered and coughed again, weak and desperate for breath. When he tried to inhale, the stale air only scratched his sensitive throat, provoking more hideous coughs. He couldn't breathe. He would suffocate here. Where was _here_ anyway? He looked past the woman, seeing the grey slate wall and remembering...

"_To the gas," Semyon had muttered darkly, recalling the fate of his mother and sister._

He had survived the gas chamber. They were dragging out the bodies now. His mind was a whirlwind of absolutely nothing useful. He knew he would die now, his sentence had only been prolonged, but he couldn't remember how...would he be gassed again? Fed to the dogs? Would they shoot him? Would he just be tossed into the furnace with the other bodies? He was too weak to move and the woman glanced over his head before smacking a hand down on his mouth. Her hand was meatier than any he had seen lately—she must have come to the camp recently.

"_Do not cough,"_ she instructed quietly. "_Pretend you are dead._"

Harry wasn't sure why he bothered, but he did as he was told. He had to bite his lip to keep from coughing, but he bit it stubbornly as she dragged him out to join the other bodies. He bit down until the lip burst open and blood poured freely from his mouth. All for the better, his addled mind thought, because many people bled from the nose or the mouth or both when subjected to the gas. Perhaps it would look more convincing for the guards. Though, if he were in his right mind, he wouldn't have seen the point in trying to trick the guards. They had his number: he would be recorded as "dead," and dead men could not go back to their barracks and pretend nothing had happened.

But he wasn't in his right mind. He was in the here and now, and right now he just wanted to get out of here alive—away from the gas chambers, away from these officers.

He nearly lost his hold on his cough when he felt the familiar nuzzling of Snuffles, who seemed distraught beyond consolation, and then insatiably curious. He must have wandered away from the others to find him. He hoped the blasted dog wouldn't give away his game. The woman left him in the pile of bodies. Being one of the last loaded into the body cart, he had enough room to breathe, but was covered in such a way that the guards shouldn't notice his naked ribs moving to suck in sweet, scratchy air. Unless, of course, the dog gave him away.

Snuffles settled next to him, cumbersomely perched on the pile of bodies and licking away the blood from Harry's mouth as the boy cautiously drew in a few hesitant breaths through his nose, still biting his lip. His lungs burned, his throat was raw and likely bleeding, but he was stubborn. He had nothing else to fight the cold, nothing but the pain, so why not ride the wave.

* * *

Harry hoisted himself up from the pile of bodies that was dumped unceremoniously next to one of the ovens. He coughed up blood and choked on his own stomach acid as he dry heaved—making the pain in his throat all the more brutal—but he climbed to his feet in the end, shuddering. The old man operating the oven turned to look at him curiously, but remained absolutely quiet. Harry gave him a sloppy smile that was dripping with spit and blood before stumbling away from the ovens, naked, barefoot, with a scrawny dog trotting almost giddily at his side.

When he came across a body that was waiting for the ovens with clothes relatively in-tact, and took the time to dress himself. He found shoes close enough to his size on the body of a ten-year-old girl. The girl was blonde and looked familiar...she looked a bit like the little girl from the flight that had brought him to this mess, all those months ago. The girl whose flower he had left on the ground, next to her body. He shook his head of that nonsense and slipped her shoes on over a pair of stiff wool socks.

Snuffles seemed to know the way out of the maze of blessedly warm ovens, so he followed him. No guard even looked at him as he walked away from the smoke stack, blood dripping from his mouth and smeared across his chin. He took the lead from Snuffles, heading back the way he came but steering clear of the underground gas chambers.

He soon came upon the construction site again, out of sight of the guards and prisoners, with Snuffles at his side. He looked at the site with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He was a dead man already, he thought, so why not go out with a bang this time?

He was a lithe creature, stealing across the muddy scene without being noticed. Snuffles trotted along beside him, but Harry put his hand out, ordering him to stay put. The dog hesitantly sat back on his haunches, watching the boy carefully.

Harry stole one last glance at the guards before darting toward the bulldozer and hoisting himself up into the cabin. The key was always in the machine: no prisoners were allowed to operate it, so there was no chance the key would ever go missing. Harry turned the ignition and felt the engine roar to life.

It wouldn't be missing for very long, they'd have it back soon enough.

It took longer than he expected for his actions to be noticed—later, he supposed they thought he was an officer using the machine, appearing only as a blurry figure through the muddy windows of the cabin.

He didn't know much about bulldozers, but he had learned enough from watching at a distance to get the thing to move in one direction. Forward. He pulled on a few levers before punching the gun, throwing it into full acceleration, straight for the wall. He relished the shouts coming from below, grinning madly though the blood and spit and mucus hanging from his nose and mouth.

With a ghastly barrage of ruckus, the bulldozer crashed into the cement wall. For a heart-stopping moment, Harry thought his pet would just crumble and fall onto its side in an anticlimactic demonstration of defeat. But the frozen terrain was at a decline here and he had picked up enough momentum in his acceleration so that the bulldozer broke _through_ the cement barrier in a cloud of dust and a hailstorm of rocks.

And bullets. The guards were shooting at him now. His loyal bulldozer pushed forward, powering through the rubble. It bobbed along as it ran over the debris, nearly tipping on its side several times, but Harry held on through the heaving and jolting. He kept driving forward, ever forward. He heard shouts of joy mixed in with the cursing guards and hoped he had at least given the prisoners a good show before he died. He heard a dog barking and he actually laughed while hanging onto the steering wheel for balance.

Bullets peppered the bulldozer, some harmlessly hitting the body of the industrial machine while others bounced off the frame of the cabin. Harry and his thunderous machine were limping well past the wall and heading for the trees when he noticed the engine smoking heavily. He didn't bother fucking around with the controls, the beast was clearly spent. It had served its purpose well.

The glass in the cabin shattered and, after he felt more than heard a bullet whiz past his ear, he decided it was high time to make a run for it. He opened the cabin door to the chaotic storm of guns and shouting, choked down a breath of dust, and leaped down into the remaining rubble on the ground. He narrowly avoided rolling his ankle when a block of cracked cement crumbled under his weight. He regained his footing and shot off blind in the dust cloud toward what he hoped was the forest.

He ran. He kept running, running ever forward, hearing the rally of guns behind him as well as the prisoners' hopeful cries overtaking the guards' fiery demands. He wondered if any prisoners had slipped through the massive hole in the wall behind him, but he didn't dare turn back to find out. The forest was coming closer, any moment now a bullet in his back would bring him down, but the trees were so close he could count their bare branches—

With a flurry of color, his vision changed. Trees were passing him in a blur, winter-worn bushes flying by on his left and right. He was in the forest, and still no bullets put him down. He heard the familiar noise of gunfire, heard the guards screaming orders at each other, and above all of that he heard the prisoners.

He realized he wasn't cold now. Right now, he was alive. He had never been closer to a cold, cruel death, and yet his face was flushed with warmth and life.

* * *

It was every man for himself. Sirius joined the fight for escape, following his godson's scent that led to the forest. He didn't have time to think amidst the battle cries of the prisoners and the confusion and panic pouring from the Nebo. His paws pounded through the snow, propelling him toward that crazy kid in the lead.

Bullets battered the ground around him, throwing up puffs of snow as he navigated his way through the countless stinking bodies running for their lives. He had never seen such life in these people, but now they seemed like marathon runners, or superheroes. They were capable of anything.

The boy he knew as Semyon dove onto a guard's back, bringing the bastard down and swiping his gun. Without a second thought, the teenager shot the man between the shoulder blades and took off running again. Sirius counted the men Semyon took down as the boy kept running—running and shooting—toward the forest. Two had fallen, then three, then suddenly it seemed like all that was left were the prisoners. He could still hear guns firing, he knew they were not safe yet, but Semyon alone had thinned the herd of predators. Sirius leaped over the body of a fallen prisoner and veered toward Semyon, not quite knowing why but deciding, somewhere in his head, to protect the boy—or at least to be by his side, as Harry had.

They made it to the forest, and kept running. He couldn't see Harry anymore, but he followed his scent, which ran forward, simply enough. The prisoners around them were being picked off by the remaining guards, but he and Semyon made up the lead, and they would press on until the life was shot out of them.

He would get to Harry.

* * *

It was dark in the forest—it was dark nearly every hour of the day in a Russian winter—as Harry stumbled through the wilderness, pushing forward. He could still hear the officers shouting and shooting behind him, and now he heard the dogs as well. Their angry, hungry barks filled the air, chilling him in a way the cold never could. His euphoria was gone, replaced by a sickening feeling that didn't make sense.

He had been happy when he was running to a certain death—he had fully expected to be shot down, but he ran anyway, just to play the game. And now that he was so far ahead, now that he was winning, he was sick to his stomach with fear. With victory in sight, he couldn't bear to lose now.

He kept running through the dark and the cold. It was difficult to navigate his way in snow but he kept pounding his feet into the hard earth, pushing his thighs down into his feet. He changed course a few times, then ran some more. This wasn't a game anymore, this wasn't his way of proving a poetic point. This was real, it was his chance. And he would take it.

While he ran, he hoped Semyon had made it past the wall as well. He hoped Semyon was still running.

* * *

They had been running for hours. Literally, hours. It didn't just _feel_ like hours to their worn out bodies, it had actually been hours. The stars had changed positions, the Earth had turned some more, it was deep into the night now. The sounds of guards and dogs had disappeared, but Semyon and Snuffles kept running anyway, following the boy's scent. They kept running until they heard a familiar voice cry out in frustration—in pain?

Harry.

They found him at the bottom of a sudden slope, clawing at his leg which, from what Snuffles could see in the moonlight, had busted through a log.

"Harry!" Semyon whispered hoarsely, slinging the stolen gun across his back. Harry gasped and whimpered breathlessly, craning his neck around to look behind him, up the hill.

"Semyon?"

Semyon responded shortly in Russian, and then Harry's attention turned to Snuffles. Sirius's heart soared at the loopy grin his godson gave him—however bloody it may have been.

"Snuffles," Harry chuckled as they made their way down to him. Semyon asked him a question and he responded in Russian, indicating his leg. Semyon bent and observed the minimal damage. The leg was simply caught and Harry didn't seem to be in any lingering pain. He grabbed Harry from under the pits and hoisted him up while pulling him back. An awful crunching noise cut through the icy air as Harry's leg broke free of the log. Sirius was relieved to see no real damage—the boy was standing on his own now, picking splinters out of his oversized pants.

He looked up the hill and noticed the trail in the snow. Harry must have taken the slope too fast, tumbled down and broken through the half-rotten log, stranding him in his journey.

"C'mon," Harry whispered in a cracked voice, wiping his mouth after coughing up a bubble of blood. He tugged Semyon's sleeve, intending to lead the way forward once more. Semyon grabbed his arm, looking dead on his feet. The boys argued for a minute or two in hushed tones, and Sirius didn't need to know Russian to know that Semyon was urging Harry to sleep here for the night. He won in the end. Harry was just as weary as him.

They used the pile of rotten wood to build the shittiest lean-to Sirius had ever seen. It would serve to protect them from the wind, but not much else, and not if the wind was particularly strong. They huddled together for warm, Harry in the middle, clutching Snuffles close while Semyon hugged him from behind. Sirius had often spent the night in the Forbidden Forest, surrounded by his marauding schoolmates, and sometimes missed the comfort a tree-canopied sky could bring. But there was no comfort here. They had escaped the crazed Muggles for today, but this forest of the damned might claim them yet.

They drifted into a light sleep, jerking awake at every little sound.

* * *

___A smile comes to his face  
An uneasy calm  
In front of him, his life flashes by  
Amidst his boyish charms,  
he feels his mother's arms  
In that painless moment, he hears her cry_

[Fallen Flowers – Steve McDonald]

* * *

**Story Recommendation: **Lord Voldemort Orders a Pizza, by dude04. _I honestly don't usually go for the silly one-shots, but this is hilarious and well-written. Honestly a fun, short read that will maybe cheer you up after reading my bullshit._

**Author's Note: **Long weekend at work, starting my full time schedule this week, but I have today and tomorrow off to recover and I'm catching up on my shows. Sherlock—fabulous, can't believe I haven't watched it before. Also, is anyone else thrilled to hear Matt Smith is finally leaving Whoville? His hipster-pandering ways can't hurt us anymore.


	5. Chapter 5: Putting Out Fire

**Chapter 5: Putting Out Fire**

* * *

**Author's Note:** Here's another chapter! Thanks for the reviews. ******This chapter is largely based off of Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds. ********Even the song is featured in the movie. **I tweaked the dialogue to make it applicable here. One of the most tense scenes I've ever seen in a film, I had to include it. I should name the chapter after the movie, but the Basterds aren't featured unfortunately (thought about it—nice spin, right?), so it wouldn't fit.

Let me know what you think of Harry being in this situation, his characterization is delicate here and I hope it makes sense without losing its inherent chaos.

Again, the later part of this chapter is pretty much verbatim **Inglourious Basterds. **I don't want any reviews complaining about it. It's a damn good movie.

* * *

**The Damned**

**Chapter Five: Putting Out Fire**

By: Phantom of the Tech Booth

_See these eyes so green  
I can stare for a thousand years  
Colder than the moon  
It's been so long  
And I've been putting out fire  
With gasoline _

[Putting Out Fire – David Bowie]

* * *

In the coming days, the prisoners—the liberated—and their dog met up with a handful of other escapees, and nobody of the Nebo persuasion. As the group became larger, finding warmth at night became slightly easier. Low fires were built at night, but there was not much food to be had. Harry heatedly protected his dog from hungry eyes, for which the mutt seemed eternally grateful. The two huddled closely together each night, Harry burying his face in that matted, smelly fur, breathing in thoughts of the Gryffindor dorms.

They miserably stuffed their aching stomachs on the bark of trees and roots and the leaves of shrubs. Stray acorns and nuts were prized. Pine needles were plentiful but nearly unbearable. Harry never thought he could miss the watery soup and stale bread of _Chertovsky_. It had been four days and there were now eight escapees, plus a dog. They would not survive long, despite the distance they covered.

Their hunger was staved off on the fifth night when someone in the group—Adam, a Ukrainian hunter—scrounged up a nest of squirrels. They rationed the meat over the next few days and soon it was day ten or eleven of their endless trek. They didn't know where they were going, just that they were heading southwest, away from the camp and away from the cold. Adam thought they were close to Ukraine now, but there was no way to know until they found another sign post—but following established paths was a danger they couldn't afford, so they mostly kept to densely forested areas.

When they found the house, there were just five of them left, plus a dog. Harry, Semyon, Adam, Nestor, and Pasha. Adam and Pasha were fairly young, in their late twenties, but Nestor was an old man and the camp had aged him dramatically. He may have been fifty or sixty, but he looked at least seventy. Pasha, still new to the camp and of an athletic build, sometimes carried Nestor on his back, but his strength was fleeing him. Russian winters had a way of sapping the strength from the strongest of men.

The house was on the edge of a large clearing was nestled far above a tiny village in the distance. It may have been a farm, but it certainly wasn't doing much good under the snow. A well was frozen over in the back, and a dilapidated barn crusted with icicles was behind that, but the house's chimney was piping smoke into the air. People were in there. Warmth was in there. Food.

"_They live by the Nebo,_" Semyon warned. "_So close, they must be part of it all_."

"_Fuck them, we have a gun!_" Adam barked, making to grab Semyon's stolen weapon. Semyon jerked away, glaring savagely.

"_They might be soldiers,_" he continued.

"_He's right,_" Pasha chipped in. "_And if not, the Nebo could have gotten to them first—they're the first house we've reached, they will be expecting us. We will be walking into a trap!_"

"_I need to eat!_" Nestor gasped, hugging himself where Pasha had dropped him on his bum.

"_We all need to eat!_" Harry snapped irritably, barely glancing at the withered old man lying uselessly in the snow. He hated every bit of himself for thinking it, but he had started wishing long ago that Nestor would just _die_ already. Three others in their group had died while Nestor survived—how was that possible?

"_You little English brat, I—_"

"_Quiet!_" Semyon cut in. "_Where is your dog going?_"

Harry wrinkled his forehead and looked to see Snuffles trotting confidently, _happily_ through the snow toward the house. They held their breath as the dog peered through a window before padding to the door, scratching at it humbly.

A strong man in long-johns and overalls under a brown coat opened the door. His shoulders were nearly as broad as Hagrid's, and he peered down at Snuffles. A woman came to his side, watching as Snuffles pranced around playfully. She said something to the man, who laughed, before reaching her fist out to let Snuffles sniff it. When she deemed him safe, she reached out to pet him.

"_The Nebo like dogs, too, or have you forgotten your brother?_" Adam had barely gotten the words out before Harry rounded on him. His blood ran hot with anger: how _dare_ this arsehole bring up Petya, precious, innocent, fun-loving Petya... Just as Harry cocked his fist, his whole body tensing and his mind going blank, Semyon knocked it back down.

"_No!_" Harry nearly bit through his healing lip again, staring at Semyon with disbelief on his face. He looked at him, the strange, quiet brother of his dear friend Petya—Petya, the boy who took him in, the boy who stood up to face his snarling demons, the boy who protected him... Harry relaxed his hand. Semyon had done all of that as well. Semyon had always been by his side, and now he was saving him from a world of hurt yet again. If he raised a hand to this shitface Adam, the almost-thirty-year-old Ukrainian hunter, he'd be beaten down in a second. And even if he won, what would it win him? Not Petya. He was being stupid.

His gaze flashed over to that shitface Adam again. Sometimes he _liked_ being stupid. Sometimes he wanted to just haul off and hit something, or sit in the snow and cry and pull out what was left of his hair, or...or push someone in a latrine. He glanced back at Semyon but looked away, down, almost instantly.

"_Shit shit shit shit shit!_" Adam was saying now, backing away from his view of the clearing. Harry's eyes flew back to Snuffles, who was leading the couple to their part of the forest. They were likely already spotted if the man's face was anything to go by: curiosity, mixed with caution, fear...

The group as a whole moved back, scrambling away from the clearing—

But did he have a gun? Did the man carry a gun? Was he cautious because he was expecting a vicious animal or was he cautious because the Nebo had already paid him a visit—

"_Who's there?_" The man had a voice that matched his thick shoulders. Harry felt compelled to answer, but kept his mouth shut.

Snuffles yapped encouragingly, sprinting head-first into their hiding spot. He tugged on Harry's sleeve and Semyon jerked his head, signaling Harry to go—go _now_. Before the rest were given up. Harry hastily ran forward, his hands up in surrender, hoping Semyon was a good shot if things turned sour.

The man stopped dead in his tracks and raised a hand behind him, indicating for his wife to stop as well.

"_Who are you, child?_"

"_M-My name is Harry_," he answered, his hands still in the air.

"_Are you okay? What are you doing here?_" The man's eyes raked over his trembling, skeletal body. He must look a sight: hair falling out, blood caking his ill-fitted clothes, sickly skin stretched over tenuous bones.

"_Have... Have you heard of the Nebo, sir?_" Harry was unsure of how to continue, how to tell him what had happened, but the man's eyes softened and his body relaxed. He took a hesitant step toward Harry, his hands coming into full view—to show that he was unarmed.

"_Yes,_" the man said. He grimaced, taking in Harry's appearance with new understanding. "_Come with us, we will do what we can_."

It was a strange feeling, to have to make a conscious decision to trust or to flee. He had no logical reason to trust this man, but the look in his eyes, the compassion, the pity, seemed genuine. Having been surrounded by false friends and backstabbers for six months, Harry had nearly forgotten what an honest man looked like.

"_There are others,_" Harry blurted, looking between the man and his slowly approaching wife. He heard Adam give an almighty huff of indignation. The jig was up. Harry ran his fingers in Snuffles's fur as the other four escapees revealed themselves. The woman gave an almost inaudible gasp and the man focused all of his attention on Semyon.

"_I won't have guns in my house_," he said firmly. For a moment, Semyon glared stonily back, but Harry turned and nodded meaningfully at him, silently pleading for Semyon to at least trust _him_, if not the man. It would be okay. Semyon tensed his jaw but nodded with a jerk of his head. He dropped the gun into the brush behind him. It wouldn't do to hand it over, and Harry approved—if the man turned on them, that would be one less weapon at his disposal.

* * *

They rested for the night, and it was the best night's sleep Harry could remember getting. They ate a dinner fit for a king—roasted pig with warm milk to drink—and bedded down on soft, warm pallets that the wife and three daughters made for them by the fireplace. It was a small house, just two rooms and an outhouse, but it was more hospitable than anything Harry could have dreamed of, second to the Burrow popping up in the wilderness of Russia.

The next day, the man—Osip was his name—was out chopping wood while Harry and the escapees were doted on by the sympathetic women of the family. Harry was embarrassed by the attention, but relished the warmth and food. From outside, Osip called for his eldest daughter while Harry focused avidly on giving Snuffles the best belly rub of his entire life. When the girl returned, she opened and closed the door gently enough, but then she whirled around in a panic.

"_They're here! Hide them!_" Harry didn't need to be told who _they_ were. The Nebo had come.

The wife shooed Nestor off of his pallet and ripped the bedding from the floor, issuing orders to her daughters as she fumbled with the floorboards.

"_Take the sheets, put them in water, make it look like our laundry! Now!_" The youngest daughter bundled up the bedding in her arms and rushed to a large tub in the corner, dunking the sheets and thoroughly soaking them.

The wife found a crease and dug her fingers in, lifting a square section of the floor up, revealing the muddy ground under the house. Without a word, she began ushering the escapees into the hole. Harry was the first one down and he crawled on his belly as far as he could go, reaching the far wall where the air was most frigid. The others spread out under the floorboards with him, but Snuffles didn't make it down before the woman shut the door with a snap and hurriedly swept the floor to remove any trace of their habitation.

Voices from outside, too muffled to hear clearly, suddenly broke inside. Osip and an unfamiliar voice had joined the room. Harry looked through the slits in the floorboards to see Osip's family—his comely wife and three pretty teenage daughters—standing in the kitchen area, opposite the front door. The door closed.

"_Colonel Landa, this is my family._"

The colonel clicked his heels together and stepped forward, creaking over the floorboards, to shake the hand of Osip's wife.

"_Colonel Hans Landa of the esteemed Nebo, madame, at your service. Please excuse my rude intrusion on your routine._"

"_Don't be ridiculous, Colonel,_" the wife spoke kindly, if a bit breathlessly.

"_Sir, the rumors I have heard in the village about your family are all true,_" Landa spoke, not taking his eyes from Charlotte. "_Your wife is a beautiful woman. And each of your daughters is more lovely than the last._" Harry met Semyon's eyes—he was five feet or so away from him, the closest to him but not close enough. Harry wanted to grab onto him and never let go. The pleasantries were chilling in their meaninglessness. They would end soon, he knew.

"_Thank you,_" Osip said stiffly from his position by the door. "_Please have a seat._"

The Colonel lowered himself carefully into a wooden seat at the plain dinner table they had eaten a filling meal at just an hour ago. Harry couldn't see more than his feet—the table was blocking his view through the slots in the floor—but he didn't see a gun. Only a black briefcase.

"_Charlotte, would you be so good as to get the Colonel some wine?_" Osip suggested.

"_Thank you, sir, but no wine. This being a dairy farm one would be safe in assuming you have milk?_"

"_Yes_," Charlotte answered.

"_Then milk is what I prefer._" The Colonel was cheerful and polite in his manner; Harry could hear the smile in his voice.

"_Very well._"

Charlotte bustled about the kitchen and Harry and the others collectively held their breath, listening to the milk as it was poured into a glass. The Colonel chugged it and placed it—hard—on the table, eliciting a jump from some of the hidden guests.

"_Sir, __to both your family, and your cows, I say Bravo._"

"_Thank you._"

"_Please, join me at your table._"

"_Very well_." Osip scraped a chair back and sat gracefully for a man of his size, albeit a bit stiff.

"_Sir_," Landa continued. "_What we have to discuss would be better discussed in private. You'll notice, I left my men outdoors—if it wouldn't offend them, could you ask your lovely ladies to step outside?_"

"_You are right,_" Osip acquiesced. "_Charlotte, would you take the girls outside. The Colonel and I need to have a few words._" As Charlotte and the girls grabbed their coats and took their leave, Harry wondered how much of an influence the Nebo had in this region for Osip to address the self-entitled man as Colonel so readily.

"_Sir, I regret to inform you I've exhausted the extent of my Russian. To continue to speak it so inadequately, would only serve to embarrass me. However, I've been led to believe you speak English quite well?_" Landa's Russian sounded fine, quite elegant, to Harry, but he wouldn't mind English either.

"_Yes_."

"_Well, it just so happens, I do as well. This being your house, I ask your permission to switch to English, for the remainder of the conversation?_"

"_By all means_."

"Sir, while I'm very familiar with you, and your family, I have no way of knowing if you are familiar with who I am. Are you aware of my existence?" The faces under the floorboards twisted with confusion at the shift in language and Semyon stared at Harry, but dared not make a sound. Harry glanced at Semyon and then returned his gaze to the Colonel's feet, feeling light-headed and struggling against the urge to suck in deep, greedy breaths.

"Yes." Harry blinked—what could Osip know of this Colonel Landa? How deeply embedded in this region were the Nebo? Was Osip and his family in line with them? Were they just leading them on, hiding them down here?

"This is good. Are you aware of the job I've been ordered to carry out in Russia?"

"Yes."

Harry heard the glass of milk lift from the table, heard the Colonel gulp down more milk, and couldn't help but think how parched he himself was.

"Please tell me what you've heard."

"I've heard, the Nebo have put you in charge of rounding up the unfaithful left in Russia who are either hiding, or passing for humbled." Harry cringed at the word, even in English. That was the word for those who adhered to some sort of—almost any sort of—religion: humbled. '_Controlled'_ _is what they mean_, Harry knew. _Pacified._

"I couldn't have said it better myself." That smile was back in his voice again.

"But the meaning of your visit, pleasant though it is, is mysterious to me," Osip spoke up. "The Nebo looked through my house nine months ago for hiding the unfaithful, and found nothing."

_He's on our side_, Harry breathed the smallest of sighs in relief.

"I'm aware of that, I read the report on this area. But like any enterprise, when under new management, there's always a slight duplication of efforts. Most of it being a complete waste of time, but needs to be done nevertheless. I just have a few questions, sir. If you can assist me with answers, my department can close the file on your family."

The Colonel reached down for his slim briefcase and brought it up to the table. Harry heard it click open and a brief rustling of paper ensued before Landa spoke again.

"Now before the occupation there were two unfaithful families in this area, both dairy farmers like yourself. The Doleracs, and the Rollins, is that correct?"

"To my knowledge those were the two unfaithful families among the dairy farmers. Colonel, would it disturb you if I smoked my pipe?" Harry could hear a hint of distress in Osip's voice, but the man looked calm and collected from his perspective.

"Please, it is your house, make yourself comfortable." Osip stood and slowly, purposefully walked to his shelf over the fireplace, reaching for the wooden box where he kept his pipe. He sat back down at the table, loading it with tobacco and lighting it expertly.

"Now according to these papers, all the unfaithful families in this area have been accounted for. Excellent news indeed. I am happy to see that this community stands behind the Nebo mission." Harry wanted to scrape the skin from that smiling face. "We have recently suffered a break-out from our nearest facility." Landa's tone did not change: it was light and kind, as if this were a casual business meeting. The others under the floorboards, with the exception of Harry and Semyon, had no idea what was being said, but seemed encouraged by the cheerful tone of voice.

"Most of these escapees were unsuccessful, and many have been recovered, but there are some who have gone unaccounted for, which leads me to the conclusion that they've either made good their escape, or someone is successfully hiding them." A long pause, but Osip said nothing. He wasn't meant to speak. "What have you heard of this break-out?"

"Only rumors—"

"I love rumors! Facts can be so misleading, where rumors, true or false, are often reveling. So what rumors have you heard regarding this embarrassing little episode?" Osip said nothing. "Speak freely, sir, I want to hear what the rumors are, not who told them to you."

"Again, this is just a rumor—" Osip began "—but we heard there was a massive break, that those who made it have gone south." Landa seemed to accept this vague answer well enough. Harry heard him touch his papers, ever so lightly.

"There are five escapees as yet unaccounted for, another ten who we believe we are closing in on east from here. We followed a string of bodies—they should not have left the facility, sir, the wilderness is too harsh for these undisciplined people."

Harry thought of the dead they left behind. Three had died since their group formed a week and a half ago. Three bodies they buried under branches and snow, having been unable to break the frozen ground without a shovel. Harry gripped his frost-bitten fingers, curling his stiff hands into fists while he listened.

"When we didn't find any more bodies, we followed the trail they left behind. Footsteps, fire-pits, blood. Our hounds can easily track their smell, despite the cold." Osip remained silent, puffing on his pipe. "We are still tracking the other ten escapees east, but do you know where this particular trail led our men?"

Harry watched the back of Osip's head as he shook it in the negative.

"Right to the edge of your humble farm," Landa provided. Snuffles whined from his position by the door. Harry's heart was pounding out of his chest, he was trembling from head to foot, unable to feel the cold mud beneath his shaking body. Semyon kept looking at him, hard, as if the harder he stared, the easier it would be to get out of this alive.

The others were still oblivious, listening but not understanding.

"I wanted to come here so that your family, ever loyal, ever humble, would remain safe from these outlaws," Landa continued. "I wonder if I may give you a formal description of those missing? If you see them, you will want to report them immediately."

Osip nodded.

"Based on eye-witness descriptions of the other ten, forwarded to us by your neighbors, we believe there are five males traveling in the vicinity of your farm. Nestor Yeltsin," Landa read from his paper. Below, Nestor nearly flew out of his skin at the mention of his name. Pasha shushed him silently, desperately. "Age sixty-two. Native of Moscow, captured while visiting his brother in Samara. Detained October 15th. Escaped December 10th."

Osip nodded, thoughtful.

"Adam Ikanov," Landa continued. Adam perked up, but made no movement except to look in Harry's direction. He was watching Harry's face, watching for clues as to what was being said. "Age twenty-nine. Native of the Ukraine, captured in a heist on a commuter train in his hometown. Detained August 30th. Escaped December 10th.

"Pavel Markin, I believe they call him Pasha for short, if his _kapitan_ spoke accurately. Age twenty-five. Native of Omsk. Captured in a raid of his hometown. Detained November 23rd. Escaped December 10th.

"Semyon Orlov, age fifteen. I am sorry, sixteen, as of December 1st. Native of a St. Petersburg suburb. Captured with his family in a raid of his neighborhood. Detained April 16th. Escaped December 10th.

"Harry Potter, age fourteen. Native of England," Landa said, as if it were the most fascinating tid-bit of information he'd ever heard. "Captured in a hijacking of an international flight. Detained June 4th. Escaped December 10th. _He_ is believed to be the perpetrator of the December 10th break, sir." Landa took another gulp of milk before chortling as if something genuinely amused him. "Would you believe it? A child."

Osip made a brief grunt of mild interest, to be polite.

"Well I guess that should do it," Landa said suddenly, gathering up his papers and closing his briefcase. Harry's heart soared. "However, before I go, could I have another glass of your delicious milk?"

"But of course." Osip stood to refill his glass and Landa continued speaking.

"Are you aware of the nickname the people of Russia have given me?"

"I have no interest in such things."

"But you are aware of what they call me?"

"I'm aware."

"What are you aware of?"

"That they call you, The Hunter."

"Precisely! Now I understand your trepidation in repeating it. Before he was assassinated, Heydrich apparently hated the moniker the good people of Prague bestowed on him. Actually why he would hate the name, The Hangman, is baffling to me. It would appear he did everything in his power to earn it. But I, on the other hand, love my unofficial title, precisely because I've earned it." Landa accepted the glass and gulped down more milk. Harry was itching for him to leave already. They seemed to have made it out of this pickle, and he didn't want to hang around for storytime.

"The feature that makes me such an effective hunter of the unfaithful, is, as opposed to most soldiers, I can think like an unfaithful, where they can only think like a Russian, or more precisely, a Russian soldier. Now if one were to determine what attribute the Russian people share with a beast, it would be the cunning and predatory instinct of a hawk.

"But, if one were to determine what attributes the unfaithful share with a beast, it would be that of the rat. But I don't consider the comparison an insult. Consider for a moment, the world a rat lives in. It's a hostile world indeed. If a rat were to scamper through your front door right now, would you greet it with hostility?" Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes, with annoyance as well as relief. This was idle chatter, Osip just had to shoo this arse out the door and they would be safe. For now.

"I suppose I would," Osip played along, ever the patient host.

"Has a rat ever done anything to you to create this animosity you feel toward them?"

"Rats spread disease, they bite people—"

"Unless some fool is stupid enough to try and handle a live one, rats don't make it a practice of biting human beings. Rats were the cause of the bubonic plague, but that was some time ago. In all your born days, has a rat ever caused you to be sick a day in your life? I propose to you, any disease a rat could spread, a squirrel could equally carry. Yet I assume you don't share the same animosity with squirrels that you do with rats, do you?"

_Just shut up and leave, dammit!_ Harry begged.

"No."

"Yet, they are both rodents, are they not? And except for the fact that one has a big bushy tail, while the other has a long repugnant tail of rodent skin, they even rather look alike, don't they?"

Harry wanted to scream in frustration as the Colonel went on about rats and squirrels and vermin and people like him. He let his eyes wander to Semyon, offering him a cautious smile of relief, which was surprisingly returned. Semyon hadn't smiled since before Petya fell ill.

"What a tremendously hostile world a rat must endure," Colonel Landa was saying now. _You have no idea, buddy_, Harry thought, grimacing as he shifted ever so slightly to get more comfortable in the mud. Landa kept rambling, but Harry tuned him out for the most part. He could breathe again—silently, but he could breathe.

"Consequently, a Russian soldier conducts a search of a house suspected of hiding the unfaithful. Where does the hawk look? He looks in the barn, he looks in the attic, he looks in the cellar—he looks everywhere he would hide. But there are many places it would never occur to a hawk to hide. I am aware what tremendous feats human beings are capable of once they abandon dignity." Harry's ears perked up at this. Dignity. There's a thought he hadn't paid much attention to lately. "May I smoke my pipe as well?" Why wasn't he leaving? What was he talking about?

"Please, Cononel, make yourself at home." Osip's voice was strained. Nervous. Colonel Landa busied himself with preparing his pipe on the dinner table. It was much more complex than Osip's pipe.

"The other mistake the Russian soldiers make is their severe handling of the citizens who give shelter and aid to the unfaithful. These citizens are not enemies of the state. They are simply confused people, trying to make some sense out of the madness war creates. These citizens do not need punishing. They simply need to be reminded of their duty in war time."

_Except the world doesn't know it's war time_, Harry mentally roared. _They don't know what's happening!_

"Let's use you as a example. In this war, you have found yourself in the middle of a conflict that has nothing to do with yourself, your lovely ladies, or your cows—yet here you are. Let me propose a question. In this time of war, what is your number one duty? Is it to fight the Nebo in the name of your country to your last breath? Or, is it to harass the occupying army to the best of your ability? Or, is it to protect the poor unfortunate victims of warfare who cannot protect themselves? Or, is your number one duty in this time of bloodshed, to protect those very beautiful women who constitute your family?"

There was a pregnant pause and Harry swallowed. Something was not right. Something had changed. Semyon was facing away, his shoulders relaxed, meeting the gaze of Pasha, who looked relieved, happy.

"That was a question. In this time of war, What do you consider your number one duty?"

"To protect my family," Osip replied, his voice thick with emotion.

"Now, my job dictates that I must have my men enter your home and conduct a thorough search, before I can officially cross your family's name off my list of possible hoarders. And if there are any irregularities to be found, rest assured, they will be. That is unless, you have something to tell me that will make the conducting of a search unnecessary."

Harry's heart plummeted into his stomach. He shook his head at Semyon but couldn't get his attention. This was wrong, it was all wrong, it wasn't an interrogation, it was a search party, and they hadn't even begun!

"I might add also that any information that makes the preforming of my duty easier, will not be met with punishment. Actually quite the contrary, it will be met with reward." _Don't sell us out, Osip, don't sell us out! _"And that reward will be: your family will cease to be harassed in anyway, by the Nebo military during the rest of our occupation of your country." Harry screwed his eyes shut. It wasn't money he was offering—it was the lives of his family.

Osip was still, staring across the table at his opponent.

"You are sheltering enemies of the state, are you not?"

Harry waved his hands as much as he dared, trying to get _someone_ to make Semyon turn back around. Harry cursed himself for choosing the spot at the farthest wall, too far from the others—but he pushed himself farther back even still.

"Yes."

It was no use, Semyon had found a better, more comfortable position, and the others were content to face away from him now that they didn't need his face as a living clue into the English conversation. They thought themselves safe, after all.

"You're sheltering them underneath your floorboards aren't you?"

Harry was fluttering with adrenaline, but incapable of movement. His veins were coursing with energy, magic, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do. He was trapped. He heard Snuffles stand, paws clicking on the floorboards above them.

"Yes."

_No._

"Point out to me the areas where they're hiding."

_No, no, no, NO!_

There was a pause, a brief pause, in which Osip indicated the general area of their hiding place. Harry gritted his teeth and sucked in air, beginning to lose his grip on silence.

"Since I haven't heard any disturbance, I assume that while they're listening, they don't speak English?"

Semyon turned to Harry, hearing his distressed breathing.

"Yes."

Harry pointed up, up, up. Semyon listened.

"I'm going to switch back to Russian now, and I want you to follow my masquerade. Is that clear?" Landa said.

Semyon looked to Harry, confusion marking his expression. Harry just shook his head no, no, no, pointing up, up, up. He waved his hands in a negative fashion.

_This is all wrong!_

"Yes."

"_I thank you for your milk,_" Landa said in Russian, standing from the table. "_And your hospitably. I do believe our business here is done_."

Semyon shook his head at Harry's antics, pointing up and smiling as if to say, _See?_ Harry could hear Snuffles whining uncertainly. He joined his dog friend in looking toward the door. He couldn't see much, just shifting shadows as the front door opened and bodies moved in.

"_Madam,__ I thank you for your time, we shan't be bothering your family any longer._"

Semyon motioned to Harry and the others encouragingly as he remained hunkered down on his belly. Harry shook his head, waved his hands, mouthed a few desperate words, but they only tried to calm him, to soothe him, as if he were a child afraid of the dark.

Harry heard Snuffles as he was led forcibly from the house—the dog gave a strangled yelp and he heard the youngest daughter's voice as she cradled him. The footsteps that entered did not seem as lithe as Charlotte and her daughters' would be, and he could still hear the youngest with Sirius just outside the door. He couldn't see them, but Harry was sure these were soldiers entering the house as Landa finished his false goodbyes.

"_I bid you adieu._"

Their dark little world under the farmhouse came alive with the crash of machine gunfire peppering the floor. The floorboards above them shattered and popped like boiling water, spraying down splinters and dust, and yielding up blood and death. Harry was screaming hoarsely, brokenly, as he watched the others jump and twitch under the downpour of bullets. It seemed to go on for an eternity—Semyon's face was littered with shrapnel and it wasn't letting up. Harry curled into himself, waiting for the inevitable pain that would send him into death's embrace.

And then it stopped. Harry had screamed himself empty of air, and he hissed down a breath as his tear-filled eyes took in the carnage beneath the settling dust. The crawlspace was much brighter now that the floorboards were filled with holes, and he could see Pasha in the far corner, jerking and choking as his life left him.

Harry couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't see past his hot tears. It was over, it was all over, he had lost the game and dragged them down with him. It didn't occur to him that he was still alive until much later. After Landa and his men had gone, the women re-entered their broken home, sobbing. Osip fell to his knees, fingers clutching at the holes marring his floor. Snuffles tore into the house, barking madly and scratching at the seam in the floor that marked the trap door. At the sound of Snuffles, Harry gasped loudly, his breath leaving him again in an agonized wail that reverberated through the house. Charlotte began shouting at her daughters, and the trapdoor was yanked open. Snuffles was down in an instant, hustling across the terrain of bloody bodies and reaching Harry's broken, shaking figure.

Harry pulled himself together enough to crawl to the trap door, but he broke down in gut-tearing sobs as he crawled over top of and around the others. He didn't notice when his glasses fell off his thin face until he heard a crunching noise as he scuttled on past Pasha. He didn't look back. When he reached the door, he was a blind, blubbering mess, looking and feeling very much like the child he was. Osip and his wife gripped him under the armpits and yanked him up, laying him on the kitchen floor and examining him for injuries while the daughters found clean water and towels.

Harry was moaning in English, asphyxiating on his anguish. He blacked out shortly after.

Harry and Snuffles left Osip's farm late that night. He lit the match for the funeral pyre and left for the forest with a pack laden with food and blankets and supplies. Osip was heart-broken and filled with guilt, but Harry didn't blame him for his decision. They had begged for food and shelter, but nobody asked this simple farmer to lay down the safety of his family. He was a good man, and had gotten a ruined home and a bloody mess in return for his efforts. He did all he could. But the others were dead and Harry had to get out. He would be marked as deceased as well, fortunately, but the moment a neighbor saw his skeletal figure, he would be reported.

He avoided the village Osip's farm sat on the outskirts of, sticking with the forest once more. Heading southwest once more.

* * *

___See these tears so blue  
An ageless heart  
that can never mend  
These tears can never dry  
A judgment made  
can never bend  
See these eyes so green  
I can stare for a thousand years  
Just be still with me  
You wouldn't believe what I've been through _

[Putting Out Fire – David Bowie]

* * *

**Story Recommendation: **A Stranger in an Unholy Land, by serpant-sorcerer. PART I: Days before his 6th year, Harry Potter is sucked into another universe by forces not of this world. Dazed and confused, Harry finds himself in a world where his parents are alive, where Voldemort has never fallen and he is Voldemort's key enforcer. _I always love these types of fics and this is one that is well-written, completed, and with a solid plot. If you haven't tried one of these parallel universes before, I highly recommend this one._

**Author's Note: **I am ready for the weekend, no doubt. Been working my ass off and it's only been a couple days of this new schedule. Hope everyone is doing well and that this chapter finds you at a good time!


	6. Chapter 6: Imagine

**Chapter 6: Imagine**

* * *

**Author's Note:** You knew it was coming, this song. I hope you enjoy the **conclusion **of this story. I have had this idea in my head for _years_, but never imagined I would actually write the story. I just liked to see it as my own HP canon, part of Harry's backstory, which made other stories even more interesting to read. But here it is...surprisingly easy to write, in just under a week, and even more fun to post over time, giving special attention to songs and smaller scenes.

If you've read this story, do me a favor and review. Tell me what you think. At least tell me I'm not the only one who finds Holocaust stories fascinating—horrific, but addictive.

* * *

**The Damned**

**Chapter Six: Imagine**

By: Phantom of the Tech Booth

_Imagine there's no countries  
It isn't hard to do  
Nothing to kill or die for  
And no religion too  
Imagine all the people  
Living life in peace... _

[Imagine – John Lennon, performed by Perfect Circle]

* * *

"Happy Christmas!" Fred and George chorused as they broke into Ron's room.

"C'mon then," Fred said, yanking the blankets off his little brother. Ron grumbled and shoved his head under the pillow.

"Sod off!" he growled.

"Oh, ickle Ronnikins," George scolded.

"We're all waiting to open presents—"

"—so get your ginger arse downstairs!"

"FINE!" Ron sighed dramatically, throwing his pillow at his brothers as he got up to change. He was not in the best of moods today. Today was Christmas, and he was spending it at the Burrow with Hermione instead of at Hogwarts with Harry. This was not how things were supposed to go this year, and yet, nothing changed. No matter how many adults told him that they were doing all they could, nothing changed. Harry was still missing, likely dead, and they were still "looking" for the missing, likely dead, Harry. _Not looking hard enough, else they'd've found him ages ago._ He trudged downstairs to the family room and threw himself on the loveseat next to Percy, the only brother who might leave him alone. Hermione was wedged between Ginny and Bill, Fred and George were stationed by the tree, handing out brightly wrapped gifts, and Mum and Dad were...were staring at him.

He wished Charlie had been able to come home for Christmas, he could have distracted them.

* * *

He was weak, weaker than he had ever been. He thought he might die any day now, but not from a gun or a noose or dogs or gas—though his throat still felt raw and bloody from his experience in the death chamber. Barack 17, as stark as it had been, had provided some semblance of shelter from the cold—though it hadn't seemed like it at the time. The wilderness was unreal. It was like something out of a demented fairytale, a nightmare: tall, imperial trees, stripped of their greenery, glared down at him in all directions, snow blanketed the uneven ground as far as the eye could see. Well, as far as his blind eyes could see...he had a constant headache from trying to see after losing his glasses under Osip's floorboards, but he just added it to the list of afflictions his body was withstanding. He supposed it was fortunate that it was too cold for the creeks and ponds to crack under his weight because he couldn't always tell when he was crossing frozen water—the crispy snow concealed everything.

Only a few hours of light brightened his way each day. This far north, it was night almost all the time, though it seemed like even this pathetic amount of daylight had been extended from what it was. He must be making some sort of progress in his journey south. It had been several days since he left the little dairy farm, almost three weeks since he had escaped. He thought Christmas must have gone by now. He wondered if Ron and Hermione were missing him. Maybe they had forgotten him.

Plagued by bleak thoughts, he would have been driven mad by the unending forest if not for Snuffles. His furry companion provided a surprisingly entertaining audience, listening to his ramblings—which, by habit, were often in Russian—and playing fetch as they wound their way southwest, on the move sixteen, seventeen, sometimes eighteen hours a day—not that Harry could tell, exactly. He just moved until he could move no more, until Snuffles dragged him down to eat and sleep for a few hours. Harry liked to believe that _he_ was leading the way, squinting up at the stars and heading away from what he thought was _Sirius_. Snuffles, by chance, often corrected him (it couldn't be on purpose—could it?), setting him on the right path when, in his slightly delirious state, he wandered off course.

He wasn't sure where he was exactly, but he knew he had passed into Ukraine ages ago. In fact, the little village by Osip's farm seemed to be stationed along the border, based on what he had glimpsed from the forest's edge. He wondered how far he had gone into this new country and how far he would have to go until he was safe. When he dared to approach a signpost yesterday, he couldn't read the words but he did see a familiar symbol carved expertly into the wood. A square with one line coming out of the top, reaching right, and another line coming out of the bottom, reaching left. The Nebo symbol. As if they weren't close enough to the Nazis, these pricks had to have their own symbol as well, on their silver buttons and badges and hats, even on their boots. It haunted him in his sleep.

Snuffles hunted what he could and Harry learned how to build a fire. Once, after he had given up getting the damn thing to light, he threw the sticks down in an emotional huff, closed his weary eyes and tried to not to let frustrated tears fall...he must have drifted off because when he awoke, there was a fire crackling merrily where there had only been thin wisps of smoke before. Harry had laughed at himself then—of course it would work just as he had given up—but he had never seen fire behave that way...to grow from nothing to the cheeriest fire-pit he had ever seen.

It must have been accidental magic. Unless Snuffles knew how to read stars _and _start fires, that's what it must have been. If only his magic could whisk him away from this new hell. He tried not to cry when thoughts of Hogwarts, with its blazing fireplaces and rich feasts, crossed his mind. He tried not to cry when he thought of Ron and Hermione, one playing Exploding Snap, the other reading half the library for the hell of it. He even tried not to cry at the thought of his old cupboard, tucked away under the stairs, safe and warm and cozy. He had never wanted anything so badly, so entirely...he just wanted to go home.

* * *

Charlie Weasley had agreed to work overtime from Christmas through January, but that didn't mean he was happy about it. Many of the Romanian dragon reserve workers went home for the holidays, but this year well over half were required to stay for the entire time. The dragons were antsy this year. Every four or five winters they got like this—something to do with astrology, Charlie didn't care—so it wasn't a big deal, but it _was_ a pain in the arse. It was bloody _cold_ and he wanted to be home at the Burrow with his family by the fire. Mum would fuss over his scars and Dad would tell him all about his latest Muggle artifact... Maybe he would pop in this weekend for his day off, spread some holiday cheer. It was January now, but he had almost two weeks until his brothers and sister went back to Hogwarts. He wanted to see how Ron was holding up; it had been a rough year, Mum said, with his friend Harry Potter gone missing.

Charlie shuddered. The Nebo. He heard horror stories when he visited the Muggle pubs and he was glad, not for the first time, to be a wizard. No fucking Nebo bastard was going to take him to their _facility._

He deposited an empty cage that had once held a goat and was lacing up his boot when he heard the barking. He glanced up and broke into a grin when he saw a familiar mutt sprinting his way down the hill. The shaggy black dog had stayed with them for a couple days a month or two ago and he had been sad to see him leave. He was an incredibly intelligent animal, well-trained and helpful. Charlie had wanted to keep him, but his supervisor seemed to think he'd be roasted by a hungry dragon within a week.

"Hey, boy!" he called. The dog was bounding toward him, barking madly. Charlie furrowed his brow. It was not a happy bark: it was panicked, scared. "What's wrong?" he asked. The dog skidded to a halt and bit his trousers, narrowly missing his boys, to drag him back up the hill. "Whoa-oh, okay boy, I'm coming..." The dog took off toward the hill again and Charlie jogged off after him. He squinted at the trees, trying to see the source of the dog's distress, but only saw thick trees and overgrown brush, a steep hill with crunchy snow and deadly rocks—wait, what was that? His eyes followed odd track marks, sliding patterns that were not animal tracks. Coming down the hill, something else was moving, struggling. Charlie saw a figure stumbling down, almost at the bottom now. Who was that? How did they get past the anti-Muggle wards?

"Charlie, where you goin'?" Stan shouted from behind. Charlie waved him off.

"I'll be right back!"

"Who is that?" Charlie ignored him, breaking into a run when he saw that the figure was a child. A frail, starved child.

"Oi! Kid!" he called. The child's head snapped up and his eyes bugged out of his skull.

"Dragons!"

Charlie reached the kid just in time to catch him as he stumbled and fell. He pulled the boy to his feet again, supporting him around the waist. Shit, what had happened to the wards? How had this skinny Muggle wandered in—

Skinny? This boy was a skeleton! A rasping, shuddering sound was coming from his chest when he breathed. Charlie became alarmed when the boy tipped back and lost his footing again, his head lolling on his neck, barely conscious.

"No, no, no, no, no... What's your name, kid? Talk to me!" Charlie felt his forehead—in the cold, he couldn't determine an accurate temperature, but the skin was clammy to the touch. He mumbled something incoherently and Charlie had to ask him again, giving him a gentle shake. "What's your name? Do you speak English?"

The mutt was bouncing around his heels, whining and yelping. Charlie took the hint and lifted the boy into his arms. He weighed absolutely nothing. It was like lifting a broomstick with clothes draped over the handle. A bag fell from the boy's grasp, but Charlie left it in the snow, turning back to the reserve. He stared down at the shuddering child with the bony face and glimpsed...something... He hesitated, shifting the precious cargo in his arms so he could brush back the fringe—

"Holy shit!"

"Charlie, who is that?" Stan called, jogging over to join him. Charlie took off toward the hospital. At least the question of how he had gotten past the wards had been answered.

* * *

"MUM!" Charlie shouted, his head in the fireplace. "Mum, Dad!"

"Charlie, what is it?" Molly Weasley came bustling into the kitchen. "What's wrong?"

"It's Harry!" Charlie tried to keep his voice down now, not wanting to alert the rest of the house in case Harry didn't...well, just in case.

"Harry?" Arthur asked breathlessly, joining his wife.

"Charlie!" Fred greeted as he burst through the front door, face flushed and snow in his hair, only for Molly to turn him right back around and shove him out again.

"Fred, keep the others outside, Charlie isn't here," Arthur instructed solemnly. Fred blinked in surprise, but nodded seriously.

"Dad, it's _Harry_ _Potter_," Charlie said in a low voice. "He's here, he's on the dragon reserve here in Romania."

"What?" Molly gasped.

"He wandered through the wards, followed a dog that was here in November—"

"_What_ are you talking about, Charlie?!" Molly's voice was shrill with confusion. She closed her eyes and shook her head. Harry Potter was presumed _dead_. The search was still on, but they never expected to recover him. Only to serve justice.

"Harry Potter is _here_, I saw him myself! I saw his scar."

"It can't be! Charlie, you mustn't get Ron's hopes up like this..."

"Black hair, green eyes, right? Scar a bit to the right on his forehead, not quite center? A-And another scar to the left on his chin, just below the lip?" Charlie challenged, adding the last bit for good measure. Molly covered her mouth with a shaking hand.

"Is he alright?" she whispered after she recovered her senses. Charlie paused, not knowing what to say. The Boy-Who-Lived hadn't woken up yet.

"H-He's not doing so well," he explained carefully. "He was barely with it when I found him—well, when he found us."

"Arthur, go." Arthur nodded and grabbed his hat and cloak off the hook by the door.

"I'll send word when I can. Tell Dumbledore." Molly nodded, giving him a quick peck on the lips before he Flooed away.

* * *

He was warm.

That was something new. He was well and truly warm. Hot, even. He was burning up.

He was on fire!

He twisted around, trapped, trapped in a Devil's Snare, in a furnace, dying. He was being forced through a smoke stack, still alive! _HELP! SOMEONE HELP!_

"Harry!" someone called into the furnace. "Harry, calm down, you're safe!"

English...he hadn't heard English in a proper English accent since...since...

He was burning alive in here, someone let him out! He felt hands holding him down and he clawed at them, bit them, tried everything to break free. He pried his eyes open, they were caked in crusty flakes. He was blinded by the light, he was trapped by a Devil's Snare, he was so _hot_...

"His fever's high—"

"Then give him a Pepper-Up!"

He remembered Pepper-Up from Hogwarts. He took some last year when he caught the flu from Dean. Steam had poured out of his ears but he felt much better by dinnertime.

"We can't risk it, he's too thin, he could seize!"

He would like some Pepper-Up... He would very much like to have some Pepper-Up, right now.

A red headed man came into his line of sight and an unknown but not altogether unfamiliar face stared down at him.

"Harry? You awake, mate?"

"Mmmhugh..."

"You're in the hospital—"

The hospital wasn't a real hospital, he remembered that. It was a lab. Experiments went on in there, screams could be heard at all hours of the night. He returned to thrashing around in his bed. They would have to kill him before he let them inject him with anything...

"_Fuck_ your Pepper-Up!" he growled savagely.

"Blimey! You're safe, Harry!" Who was that voice? Who was under that mop of familiar red hair? "Get him some water."

Water. That sounded marvelous. His thrashing ended and the hands let him go. Thoughts of poison and experiments flew from his tattered mind the moment the cool liquid touched his lips. It was soothing on his torn throat, a most magical experience.

Magic.

Dragons.

The dragon reserve! He remembered finding the dragon reserve! He was in Romania, he had found the reserve Ron was always going on about, Snuffles led him right to it—

"Charlie?" he croaked. "Where's Charlie Weasley?" The man above him froze.

"I'm Charlie Weasley." Harry squinted, trying to focus.

"Ron? Ron's brother?"

"Yeah," Charlie laughed. He had the same smile as Ron, that much Harry could see.

"Where're m'glasses?" he asked, reaching up to touch his face.

"Err... You didn't have any glasses on you," Charlie answered uncertainly. Harry frowned. Then he remembered. They had fallen, under the floorboards, when he was crawling over bloody bodies, some still breathing. He crushed them under his knee and he had been blind every since, wandering the forest, searching for the dragon reserve he knew to be in the forests of Romania.

And he had found the damn thing. He remembered cresting the hill and crying out in joy when he saw the first dragon. Even from a distance he knew it was a dragon—fire and steam and smoke blew from its snout with an almighty roar, and Harry knew he was saved. Some people had religious experiences, sightings of angels or deceased loved ones, but he saw dragons and knew he was saved. He didn't recall stumbling down the hill, he only remembered falling into someone's strong arms, someone with lovely, familiar red hair.

"Charlie..." he muttered with a sloppy smile stretching his cracked lips. "I found...dragon r'serve, I found Charlie..."

"Are you sure we can't give him Pepper-Up? He's loopy."

"'re in R'mania?"

"Yeah, mate. Romania. You're safe, in Romania." Harry sighed, swallowing the urge to cough.

_Safe_...

"Fuck the Nebo..."

* * *

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Charlie couldn't wipe the smile from his face as the boy drifted off to sleep.

"Quite the vocabulary on him," he laughed, looking up at his dad.

"Y-Yes..." Arthur was paler than usual, watching Harry as he fell into a strained sleep.

"Dad?"

"He's so small..." Arthur's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, his hand light as a feather when it reached out to cradle Harry's gaunt face. Charlie looked down at the boy, knowing exactly what his father meant. He hadn't seen Harry in person before today—just a few photographs of him and Ron—but he was smaller than he thought physically possible. He saw each bone, his limbs looked unnaturally long on such a tiny being, and he thought he could count each rib even from under the hospital-issued pyjamas. His cheeks and temples were sunken, his eye sockets hollow craters; he resembled a fuzzy skull atop a skeleton, not a person, not a child, not someone who shared a dorm with his brother Ron.

His skin was dry and cracked and bleeding where it was not covered in a rash. He had been clammy when he found him, but now he was hot to the touch, in the throes of a vicious fever. His hair, just long enough to cover that famous scar, had been cut choppily at one time and had obviously grown back haphazardly, leaving it thin and with more than a few bald patches. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, the lids sealed with gunk, but when the boy had first looked up at him—at the bottom of the hill on the edge of the reserve—Charlie had been blown away by their vivid color. Everyone talked about Harry Potter's legendary scar, but nobody said anything about his piercing green eyes.

"Will he be okay?" Arthur asked a healer without looking away from the child. The answer was hesitant.

"It's difficult to say, in all honesty," the woman finally responded. "We don't see cases like this nowadays. The starvation is bad enough, but the fever has to break soon, or..." she trailed off, unsure of how to put it. Charlie nodded, thanking her. "We... It's just, we can't get him fed until his fever breaks, and he's too weak for our potions," she finished lamely, taking her leave. Charlie sat in a chair by the bedside, Arthur joining him on the other side. Charlie barely spared a glance at the mutt when he jumped up on to the bed and curled himself at Harry's feet.

"Are you going to tell Ron?" he asked his father.

"What do I say? 'We found Harry, but...you may only get to say goodbye?'"

"It's better than waiting until it's too late, if that is the case." Arthur swallowed and sat in silence for a long while. Charlie did not envy his decision.

"If it turns out for the worse," he said slowly, his voice almost too low for Charlie to hear, "we'll tell him his body was recovered."

"Dad—"

"It's better that way, Charlie. He'll be devastated if he knew how close he was to coming back to us."

"He'll be devastated either way, Dad." Arthur ducked his head. Charlie thought he saw a tear fall, thought he heard it hit the mattress. He had only seen his father cry once before. It was an unsettling sight.

Their conversation was cut short when Harry moaned, his eyes fluttered briefly, and he broke into a ferocious coughing fit, splattering blood on his chin and over the sheets. They called the healers in and spent the rest of the day and all of the night staying up with the boy, monitoring his condition and trying not to shit themselves in terror when the coughs returned.

* * *

It was six in the morning and Charlie had woken up from a nightmare. In his dream, Harry had coughed up blood and kept coughing until he couldn't get any more air in, and then he coughed up his lungs, and then his heart, and then his bones, until there was nothing left, because he was nothing but scratchy breath and bones...

He stared blearily at the boy before him and wondered not for the first time what he had been through in the past seven months. What had he seen? What had he endured? Where on earth had he been? His skin was pale and sickly, but his hands were heavily calloused. The clothes he had been in when he arrived had smelled like death, death and sweat and blood and shit. All signs pointed to a concentration camp, like the camps used by Muggles in the last century, but Charlie couldn't bear the thought. Who would torment a child with systematic torture and murder? Harry was an icon, a legend, a symbol of the war's end, but first and foremost he was a _child_, a Hogwarts student, his baby brother's age. Children, legends or no, could not endure such treatment.

"Charlie?"

Charlie started and reached so fast for a glass of water, he nearly knocked it over. He pushed the glass against Harry's lips, and it was soon empty.

"Thanks."

"How are you feeling?"

"Warm." Charlie put a hand to his forehead—it was still hot—but Harry waved him weakly away. "It's a good warm," he said quietly. "It's the blankets."

"Is it too hot? I can take the blankets off..." Charlie made to stand and wave the mutt off the bed, but Harry stopped him.

"No, no, really," he protested, smiling. It was a small smile but it was brilliant, despite the half-rotted teeth. "Let Snuffles stay." Charlie snorted, trying not to wake his father. _Snuffles_.

"Great name."

"He hates it," Harry's grin broke wide across his face as he looked down to the sleeping dog at his feet. Charlie's heart nearly stopped at the sight of his green eyes crinkling in a true smile. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever witnessed, somehow. "I'm keeping him."

"Hogwarts doesn't allow dogs," Charlie teased. Dumbledore would surely make an exception.

"I don't care," Harry countered with a hint of the rebellious attitude that he was known for. He grimaced and then coughed once, twice—a whole new round of coughing wracked his thin body. By the time it was over, Arthur was awake and in another panic, but Harry only went back to smiling. "How's Norbert?" It took Charlie a moment, but he remembered—

"The Norwegian Ridgeback? He's great! Getting quite large now..." they spoke of dragons until Harry drifted off again. Charlie caught his father's eye. "I think it's safe to Floo Ron over."

"The healers—"

"—weren't here for that conversation. He'll be fine, Dad, trust me. Floo Ron." After a moment of hesitation, Arthur nodded and headed for the fireplace, a bounce in his step that hadn't been there before. Charlie thought back to that smile, his heart soaring.

* * *

It was hours after Harry had fallen back asleep. He drifted into half-conscious states sometimes, and he fully awoke once more—just long enough for the healers to give him a fraction of a dose of Pepper-Up. The potion seemed to be working in their favor: Harry's fever was lowering steadily and his breathing was evening out, though he was still plagued with cruel coughs that shook his body to the core every time his eyes fluttered open.

Ron and Hermione entered the room slowly, followed by Arthur and Molly. Charlie turned in his seat and sent an encouraging smile to his baby brother before standing to greet them.

"Ron," he said gently. Ron didn't look away from the figure under the blankets, guarded by a huge beast.

"Is that him?" Hermione whispered.

Charlie nodded. She looked at him fearfully but he only smiled back, pressing a hand into each of their backs and nudging them forward. "Go on, then."

They approached his bed carefully, uncertain of what they would find. They saw a human creature, emaciated until there was almost nothing left, draped in hospital clothes and tucked under a thick blanket. His veins stood out on his blotchy skin and his hair was a pitiful sight against his haggard face. He didn't look like Harry. Hermione's eyes flowed over with silent tears at the sight, but Ron remained expressionless. He reached out and touched the creature's arm, his fingers trailing down the length of the bone until it found a hand. He gripped the hand, which was calloused and thin but warm and alive. Hermione bent to plant a soft, scared kiss on his cheek. When she leaned back, she was shocked to find a familiar pair of vivid green eyes staring back at her.

"Harry?" she squeaked. He looked naked without his glasses.

"Oh," the creature in the bed breathed, taking in the sight of his two oldest friends.

Their reunion was wet with tears and full of emotion. Ron felt every part of him lifted when he looked into those happy green eyes, and Hermione felt her broken heart begin to weave itself back together when he laughed—he actually _laughed—_at her for yanking her hand away from Snuffles when he sniffed her. His laugh was low and breathy, just like his voice, which didn't seem to use his vocal cords at all. When he broke into a bloody coughing fit, she realized why he hadn't wanted to strain his throat. She broke down in tears and had to be consoled by Ron's brother Charlie as she watched Harry battle through, his face turning red, then purple, then blue. Ron was horrified, calling for help and cursing, but Arthur reassured him that he would be fine.

"We can't expect him to be all better just because we have him here now," he reminded them later. "He's got a long way to go."

It certainly was a long way to go. Harry was frustrated more than anything by how long it was until he was allowed out of bed. He had gotten up to piss later that day, after Ron and Hermione had left, but a healer chewed him out before he even made it three steps. After he was caught out of bed for the third time in two days (and _still _had yet to make it to the loo without being caught), the bastards charmed his bed to emit a horrible siren when his weight wasn't on it.

A potted plant might simulate his meager weight, it occurred to Harry, if only he could train Snuffles to fetch one...

Dumbledore came to visit at the end of his second day at the dragon reserve's hospital. He was dressed in purple robes with Muggle cartoon characters printed on the sleeves, and a hat to match. Harry's eyes lit up at the sight of him and Dumbledore tried to return his earnest smile, though he couldn't help but feel as if he had failed the tragically thin boy before him. He promised what he could to make up for his failures, however. Harry would be given the opportunity to finish third year with his friends, if he felt up to it, and his dog was of course welcome on Hogwarts grounds, though it would have to stay out of the castle or Filch would have a fit.

They spoke of Hogwarts and the new Defense professor, Remus J. Lupin, as well as an escaped convict, though Dumbledore didn't tell him why Sirius Black might ever come to Hogwarts. Dumbledore spoke of the magnificent Halloween feast, which was really the only part of the year he should feel bad about having missed, and how Professor Snape would be glad to see him back so he could begin taking monumental points away from Gryffindor again.

Harry nodded off when the headmaster began boasting of Hagrid's teaching skills. His dreams were filled with Hagrid training his rabid army of three-headed dogs to rip Nebo officers to pieces.

* * *

BOY WHO LIVED FOUND ALIVE

The Boy-Who-Lived was found alive at a dragon reserve in Romania. His condition, still unknown to us, apparently confirmed witness accounts that said he was kidnapped by a Muggle political group based in Russia called the Nebo, who fashion their actions—though not their ideals—on the German Muggle Nazi movement of the 1940s, known for starving and systematically murdering millions. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, spoke briefly to us after visiting thirteen-year-old Potter.

"Mr. Potter was indeed taken to a Muggle concentration camp called _Chertovsky_, a death camp modeled after the camps used by the Nazis for systematic genocide," Headmaster Dumbledore said. "His condition is stable but what he has endured these past seven months is serious. The Wizarding World has been content to stand by while Muggles wage wars and genocides, but we must remember that the human condition is universal. We cannot wait until one of our own is victimized before we take action..." Dumbledore did not speak more on Potter's physical or mental health, only adding that the Hogwarts student would be returning to school for the spring term.

The Nebo's actions are not clear at this point and their actual influence remains largely rumored, though they seem to hold more substantial power in Eastern Europe. While their raids have historically only involved small Russian and Ukrainian towns, they have begun branching out in the past couple of years. Hijacking the Muggle aeroplane (a large metal bird Muggles use for mass transportation) that Potter was traveling in last summer marked their first international act of terror, which sparked outrage in several Muggle governments, claiming a second Holocaust was happening right under Europe's nose.

Their symbol, displayed below, represents their ideology, which states that almost any spirituality is acceptable as long as a deity is worshiped and feared. The square in the center of the symbol represents the many faiths of the four corners of the world, and the lines coming out of the top and bottom allude to the hierarchy of gods and men, and the influence of such on the morality of the baser creatures (such as people). Proper worship, they claim, means respecting and fearing one's god(s), and learning from a young age how to respect and adhere to the hierarchy of the world as a result, which is heavily swayed by religion. They select their victims based on whether or not they have anything on hand to prove their faith, such as religious-inspired jewelry or tattoos. If they do not, they are taken to a hidden rehabilitation facility—or death camp—in Russia, which is what happened to our young Potter.

Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, Potter's closest friends, were not available for comment. Potter remains in hospital at the Romanian dragon reserve until he is well enough to travel. From all of us here at the Daily Prophet, we wish him a speedy recovery in this difficult time.

* * *

Harry, according to the healers, was teetering on the brink of death for at least a week. Some days he seemed to be improving dramatically, while other days saw him afflicted by a reoccurring fever that brought him back to the edge, ranting and raving in broken Russian. Harry was actually feeling better than he had in weeks and couldn't see what all the fuss was about. His body was ill, but his hunger pains had fled and the cold that had anchored in his bones long ago was warded off by a roaring fireplace and thick blankets.

When he asked when he would be able to go home to Hogwarts, the healer had not delivered welcome news.

"Your body can't withstand magical transportation right now," she explained. "You won't be able to Floo or Portkey—" _What the hell is Portkey?_ "—or even side-along Apparate without risking serious damage, or another coughing fit."

"Well yeah, let's avoid that," Harry agreed with just a bit of snark. He really hated those coughs, after all. It wasn't like the wet coughs he had had before the gas chambers; now whatever wetness there was came from the blood he hacked up.

"When you're well enough to go, you'll have to travel by Muggle means."

"But Muggle transportation is _why_ I ended up like this in the first place!" Harry bit out. He would _not_ be taking a plane, or a train, across Europe again, and he did not relish the idea of taking a car. Road-stop checkpoints orchestrated by the Nebo were not unheard of—it was how _kapitan_ Misha had been detained. Snuffles whined and wriggled his head under Harry's hand. He ran his fingers through his fur by habit and turned his attention to the mutt when the healer excused herself.

"Fancy a road-trip, boy?" he asked stonily. Snuffles yipped a bit too happily and Harry pushed him off the bed. "_Fucking mutt..._"

* * *

But when it came time to leave, Snuffles seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for car rides. Arthur had Flooed over while the new Hogwarts Defense professor, Lupin, arrived outside with the Ministry-owned car.

"Ready to go, Harry? Lupin's outside waiting for us," Arthur said with an armful of blankets and pillows for the ride. Harry nodded, lacing up his new shoes. Dumbledore had given him enough supplies to last him the two weeks he had to endure between coming to the reserve and making it to the Burrow, including new clothes and a toothbrush, though Harry hadn't gotten to use it yet. He hadn't brushed his teeth in seven months, it was a wonder he hadn't lost any by now.

"C'mon, Snuffles," he called. "Let's go meet this Lupin fellow." The dog seemed hesitant, but followed him anyway...at least until they left the hospital, then Snuffles slinked away quickly, like a cat. "_To me, boy! To me!_" he commanded in Russian.

"Harry?" Arthur called back, loading the blankets and pillows in the back of the car. Harry ignored him, throwing down his pack to look for the dog, who seemed to be hiding in the bushes around the corner if that rustling was any indication.

"Snuffles!" he said in an admonishing tone. Lupin was stepping out of the car now to see what the hold up was and Harry started to become impatient. He didn't want to inconvenience these people any further, they were already driving across Europe for him. "Snuffles, _come here_."

The dog darted out of the bushes and took off into the reserve. He ran right into the baby dragon pen, through the flap in the shelter, and was gone. "Oi!" Harry cried, taking off behind him.

Nearly an hour later, Harry had given up. The dog did not want to leave with him. Arthur, Charlie, Lupin, Stan, two healers and Charlie's supervisor had all tried to coax the dog out of the shelter, but Snuffles was not having it. He growled when anyone came too close to the shelter entrance and the baby dragons had taken a liking to him.

"Let the mutt stay here, boy," Charlie's supervisor advised. Harry stared down at the flap in the shelter, unwilling to let anyone see the hurt he was feeling with the betrayal. "We don't usually keep dogs round here, but we can make an exception. Right, boys? 'sides, seems they've grown attached!"

Harry nodded, looking away from the flap in the wall that separated him and his last friend. _No, not last. I have Ron and Hermione back, _he reminded himself, just a touch bitterly.

The Ministry-owned car was a sleek black sedan with leather seats that take get them from Romania to France, where they would ride a ferry across to England. Charlie wasn't able to come, as he couldn't leave work, but Remus Lupin apparently had experience with Muggle cars, and had happily agreed to switch off driving with Arthur. The car, Arthur said, could be quickly warded with a Notice-Me-Not charm if they happened upon a checkpoint, but he couldn't keep it on while they were driving, or they'd be plowed on the road.

Harry settled in for the long ride to France. In a week, he'd be at the Burrow.

"So, Harry," Lupin spoke up, glancing behind him while Arthur drove. "Where did you find the dog?"

"At the camp," he said shortly, barely sparing him a glance.

"How long have you had him?"

"I don't own him." Arthur looked over at Lupin, raising a brow. Harry wasn't normally so hostile.

"What did you say his name was again?" Lupin prodded, trying to wriggle his way into a conversation with the child.

"Snuffles." For once, Harry didn't want to talk about the dog and his name. He wanted to forget about him.

"When did you meet Snuffles?" Lupin asked.

"Why do you care?" Harry snapped. He himself was surprised when a Russian accent leaked into his words, but he supposed it was natural after being totally immersed in an environment where angry Russians were common.

"I, er—" Lupin seemed at a loss, mortified even.

"Harry," Arthur stepped in, looking in the rear-view mirror at the boy glaring daggers toward the front. "Take a nap."

"I'm not tired, I don't—"

"I certainly didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Harry," Lupin said kindly. Harry briefly met his warm amber eyes and felt embarrassed. He was acting like a child.

"S'pose I am just tired," he mumbled, pursing his chapped lips and staring at his shoes. "Sorry, Professor." Lupin nodded and turned back to the front, but Harry saw him surreptitiously watching him from the side-view mirror. He stretched out in the back and used an actual pillow under his head instead of a smelly dog.

They stopped for food every once and a while. Harry ate thick vegetable soups with added protein potions. He slept most of the drive, and Lupin and Arthur switched off, one driving while the other slept. Lupin and Arthur tried to get him to talk—about anything—but he found that idle chatter with these people was not as easy as it should have been, or once _could_ have been. Too much had happened. He felt like an alien when he spoke English now, even surrounded by proper English accents, and it was surreal to think that he was on his way to the Burrow.

Harry was sipping a cup of hot tomato soup in the moving car, staring out the window at the streetlights passing by. It was night, but he couldn't sleep. The potions he was taking to recover from his illness had him sleeping all the time, and there came a point when he couldn't sleep another wink. Arthur was driving again, listening to the radio quietly, and Lupin appeared to be dozing in the passenger seat. Not for the first time, Harry wished Snuffles was there to keep him company.

"Are you awake, Professor Lupin?" he whispered. Arthur glanced at him curiously but returned his eyes to the road.

"Yes, Harry, I'm awake," came Lupin's kind voice.

"You're the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, right?" He knew this to be true, of course, but he wasn't sure how smalltalk worked anymore.

"Yes, and I hear it's your best subject," Lupin said encouragingly, turning in his seat to meet Harry's gaze. Harry looked away from his eyes, studying the man's worn collar instead.

"I like it best, I suppose," he ventured. "Ron says...er, Ron says it's a fun class." Merlin, why did he sound like such a twat? He didn't have this trouble at the camp. Lupin smiled regardless of Harry's discomfort.

"That's nice of Mr. Weasley to say so, I try to make the class as engaging as possible."

"Lockhart tried that too but he nearly got Neville killed," Harry blurted. "Death by pixies." The others laughed at that, and Lupin began filling him in on all the lessons he'd missed. Harry found he liked this type of lesson better—in a car, drinking soup, with a foreign radio playing softly. He liked this Lupin bloke, he was easy-going, he was kind, he was—familiar.

* * *

Lupin was driving and Arthur was talking to the professor about something or other when they heard the muttering from the back seat. Lupin adjusted his mirror and Arthur turned around to find Harry stretched out under his blanket, face screwed tight and talking in his sleep—in Russian. They shared a look when Harry jumped and jerked, twisting around uncomfortably, unable to wake himself from his dream. It was not the first nightmare the boy had suffered on their road trip, and it likely wouldn't be his last. Lupin pulled off the road to a rest stop, leaving just enough room to slam on the breaks, jolting everyone in the car.

Harry awoke, breathless and heaving, and relieved.

* * *

"You're okay, it'll pass," Lupin had climbed into the back seat of the moving car to rub Harry's back while Arthur drove. Harry was coughing, hacking, spluttering for air, his face turning blue and his lips coated in blood. Lupin was helpless to do anything more than comfort him, but he was ready to Apparate away for a healer if the situation didn't improve soon.

Finally, Harry's toe-curling episode trailed off and he was able to suck some air down his hoarse throat. Lupin handed him a tissue to clean up the bloody mucus. It tore at his heart to see James and Lily's son so broken, so weak, at the mercy of a body that had been run down into almost nothing at all. He looked forward to the day when Harry would be a happy, healthy Hogwarts student again. In the mean time,

"Here's some water."

* * *

They arrived at the Burrow six days after departing the dragon reserve. Molly greeted Harry with open arms and a bone-crushing hug, and Harry settled in for the last three days of their holiday break. The Burrow was a sight to see, still decked out in tinsel and holly, and a grand tree stood tall in the family room.

"Welcome home, mate!" Ron called as he thundered down the stairs. Harry greeted him with a slap on the back before hugging Hermione tight.

"Finally," she teased. "Really, how long does it take to drive across a continent?"

His last three days were spent bunking on the sofa. Molly had said that Ron's room was too messy, but he had a feeling Arthur had told her about straining his lungs. He didn't mind—he would like to avoid staircases until he got to Hogwarts. He got his old trunk back, along with his old wand, and played a pick-up game of Quidditch every day for as long as Molly allowed it (which was about fifteen minutes). He showered and brushed his teeth for the first time since June, and it felt miraculous to wash the dirt and grime and blood away. He felt like a whole new person.

Looking at himself in the mirror for the first time since the summer was an unpleasant experience. He was blown away by his appearance: the weight loss had affected his body dramatically but he never imagined it would hollow out his face to this extent, as it had with the other prisoners. Twelve years of looking into the same old face, he just didn't think it could change, but Merlin had it changed. He was ashamed to see that his teeth were a burned-yellow color, chipped in some places and bleeding around the gums. He practiced smiling with his mouth completely closed; it felt strange, but it was better than showing that grisly mouth to the world.

It was difficult to look away from his new reflection whenever he caught it. He was staring at himself in the hallway mirror one evening when Bill walked by, surprising him out of his thoughts.

"You look a sight," Bill said candidly, joining him in the mirror.

"Had no idea," Harry sardonically replied, running a hand through his thin hair. A lock came loose in his hand and he glared down at it accusingly.

"Hold on, I have something for that." Bill disappeared upstairs for a moment and Harry began halfheartedly perusing a nearby bookshelf until Bill stumbled back down and threw something at his face. It was a black beanie-hat, like what Dudley used to wear in the winter when Aunt Petunia dressed him snugly. Harry smiled—with his mouth _closed—_and pulled it on, glancing back at the mirror.

"See?" Bill said happily. "Now you just look like a strung-out junkie!"

"What did I look like before?" Harry challenged playfully, tugging at the hat distractedly.

"You don't wanna know," Bill warned. "Just keep wearing a hat until your hair realizes that you're still living."

* * *

It was the end of another year and the Hogwarts Express pulled into King's Cross Station Platform 9 & ¾ with a hiss of steam. Harry, Ron and Hermione stood as it jerked to a halt, gathering their things and talking excitedly of their summers to come.

"Harry, my dear!" Mrs. Weasley clamped her warm hands on his cheeks. "You're looking so much better, you're filling out quite nicely." She pulled him into a motherly hug, which Harry happily returned. It felt good.

"Are you getting enough sleep?" she asked, taking in the dark circles under his eyes. Harry waved her off.

"It was a long ride," he explained, fighting down a yawn.

Mr. Weasley nodded to him with a gleam in his eye, ruffling his thick hair. "Good to see you, Harry," he grinned. "Put on some weight, have you?"

"I s'pose," Harry said, smiling uncertainly while he looked around the station, but his view was smothered by redheads. "Charlie!" Harry gasped in surprise.

"Hey!" Charlie greeted, shaking his hand eagerly. "You look like a new man!"

"All those Hogwarts meals really did the trick," Hermione said proudly, pinching his belly. Harry knocked her hand away, blushing at the attention. "Even Madame Pomfrey's happy!"

"Well, nearly happy," Ron amended.

A sudden hush descended on the platform and Harry and the Weasley's looked around in alarm until their eyes lighted on a figure sauntering his way toward them. The families around him quickly cleared a path, parents pulling their children away suspiciously, but he paid them no mind.

"Sirius!" Harry broke free from the Weasley's and Hermione, all but throwing himself into his godfather's arms.

"Hiya, pup!" Sirius was all smiles in his new robes, sporting a nice haircut and a healthy glow to his once pallid skin. Freedom suited him well. "Ready to go home?"

"Are you going to tell me where 'home' is?" Harry pulled back from the hug but didn't let go of his arms. He ignored the stares coming from all around them; he was Harry Potter, he was used to stares by now.

"Mmm, somewhere in Scotland, I think?" Sirius said teasingly.

"I just came from Scotland!" Harry grumbled, trying to keep the smile off his face.

"I know, it's a bitch, i'nit?"

"Mr. Black!" Mrs. Weasley scolded. "What kind of language is that to use around a child?"

"Nothing he's never heard or used a thousand times before, Molly," Sirius replied, barely sparing her a glance. Harry shot her an apologetic look on his godfather's behalf, but saw that Mrs. Weasley's eyes were sparkling anyway. "C'mon, I booked us a spot on a Muggle train, it leaves in ten minutes."

Harry's smile vanished and he backed up involuntarily. Sirius paused in picking up Hedwig's cage. "A Muggle train?" Harry asked quietly before he could stop himself. Mr. Weasley stealthily directed his family away from the two, for which Harry was grateful. He didn't want to have this conversation in front of Ron and the others.

"...shit, Harry, I'm sorry..." Sirius sighed. "I didn't even think—"

"No, no, it's fine! It'll be fine!" Harry interrupted, eager to appease his godfather. "Sorry! Seriously, I'm just being paranoid, it's stupid."

"It's _not_ stupid, Harry, you're _not _paranoid," Sirius said, setting down Hedwig's cage and grabbing his shoulders to meet his gaze. He pulled the boy away from the crowd, stepping to the side of a brick pillar on the platform. "It's perfectly valid to be...anxious—"

"I'm fine." Harry's voice was firm but his heart was fluttering. "I know we can't Floo there, Pomfrey would have a fit."

"Speaking of which, how is your cough?" Sirius was concerned. That cough had been around since December, and it had been spotted with blood for too long.

"Rarely any blood in it at all," Harry reassured him, suddenly feeling the familiar ache in his throat again. He clamped his throat down around the bubbling feeling, stubbornly refusing to release it.

"How often is 'rarely'?" Sirius challenged suspiciously. Harry ducked his head, unable to speak at the moment. "Apparently often enough for Pomfrey to forbid travel by Floo or Portkey."

"Pomfrey's paranoid, too," Harry finally managed, feigning a light tone. He looked up to see Hermione staring in their direction. "Let's go, you said the train leaves in ten?"

"Seven, now."

Harry said his goodbyes, trying not to think that this could be the last time he ever saw his friends if the train were to be overtaken by... He shook his head clear of those thoughts. He was safe. He had his wand in his pocket this time, a grown wizard at his side. Even if something _did_ happen, he would be safe. Sirius would see to that. He only had to remind himself of the look on his godfather's face when he killed Wormtail, the mangy rat. The crazed, determined spark in Sirius's eye that night had been extinguished, and his overall escaped convict appearance had diminished almost entirely since the trial last month, but Harry had no doubt of that dangerous spark's return if faced with an opportunity to exact revenge on the Nebo. The pair boarded the train and lurched out of the station a minute later. Harry sat across from his godfather and managed a small, genuine smile. He would be fine. They would be happy. This summer would be all he ever wanted, and more.

* * *

___You may say I'm a dreamer  
But I'm not the only one  
I hope someday you'll join us  
And the world will be as one _

[Imagine – John Lennon, performed by Perfect Circle]

* * *

**Story Recommendation: **Of Western Stars, by neutral. [complete] Sirius comes across a picture of Harry five years into his imprisonment, and decides to see his godson at all costs. But when he finds Harry neglected and abused, he makes a decision that entangles them both in more troubles than ever before _This may be my all-time favorite Harry Potter story, at least the one that remains one of my top favorites despite what phases I'm going through in my reading. I may be biased but I've read it several times since I found it nearly ten years ago, and I always recommend it for Sirius/Harry bonding. It's simply wonderful._

**Author's Note: **Again, now that you have the conclusion of this story, please review and let me know what you think! My ideas for this story go on and on and on, but I'll leave it to your imagination to determine what happens to Harry from this point on.

In my mind, he struggles with serious breathing problems (I have a House crossover stuck in my head), mental and emotional consequences that lead him from therapist to therapist, heroin addiction, alcoholism, and a slew of dark adventures down the road. However, as I said before, this story has been in my mind for _years_ and of course I have a plethora of ideas for what happens after.** I won't be writing a sequel**, it would be too huge and crazy if I let myself have full reign of those plot bunnies. But if anyone ever wants to do a sequel or spin off or alternate ending, let me know. This plot idea has stayed with me for so long because it makes for such an interesting backstory.

**What Happened During the School Year? **The rest of the school year (spring term) is basically the third book condensed into one term, with one exception. When Sirius and Lupin go to kill Wormtail, Harry does not stop them. He is different when it comes to death and killing, not so gentle or merciful anymore, so Wormtail is killed before he can escape and ruin Sirius's chance for freedom. I am thinking about including** a bonus chapter** featuring Harry testifying at the trial for Sirius Black, coming from Lupin's POV...might be fun!

I'll end by once again saying that many of the scenes in this story were loosely based on Holocaust stories, real or fictional, and there's one scene (in chapter five) that is from Inglourious Basterds (Tarantino), verbatim. I meant no offense to anyone of any religious affiliation, and I chose Russia only because I love the sound of the Russian language.


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